by Jory Sherman
"This is very bad," said Red Tomahawk.
Deer Tracker looked at his new young friend with an odd look.
"You know much for one with so few summers," he said.
Red Tomahawk did not answer.
He was thinking about this latest thing, wondering what it meant.
* * *
The two outcasts crept up to the Brule camp when the fires were bright against the dark of the night. Men of the akicita prowled the edges of the lodges on soft-footed ponies, but the two young men were like lizards. They made no sound and when a warrior rode near, they froze and held their breaths as they lay flat on the ground.
It was chill for it was the Moon of the Falling Leaves and the river gave off a coolness in its evening breath. Talk from the camp drifted to their ears as they slithered closer, careful to keep to the deep shadows. They heard the trilling cries of keening women, mingled with the muffled laughter of children who did not understand the sadness of their elders. Red Tomahawk saw braves walking in pairs but could not understand their soft-spoken words.
The two men moved in close, took shelter behind a dark teepee.
Red Tomahawk saw people he knew arid he was sad in his heart that he could not speak to them. He saw Curly and his mother, He Dog, and Red Leaf, Iron Shell, and some others. Something inside him ached to cry out and join those in camp, but he fought down the feelings that rose up in him. This was not the time and he had not fulfilled his promise to himself.
The camp grew quiet and Red Tomahawk made sign to Deer Tracker that he wanted to leave.
The two crawled a long ways, then got to their feet and ran. A warrior cried out and they heard the beat of pony hooves on the earth, but no one found him. They went back to the brush and spread their blankets in the thickets.
"You do not talk much, and I do not know your name," said Deer Tracker.
"I will tell you my name one day."
"What will I call you?"
"Hunkashila," he replied. "Boy."
"I will call you No Name."
Red Tomahawk lay on his back and looked up at the stars. Then he drew a breath and closed his eyes.
No Name.
It was good enough for now, he thought. It was the way he felt.
* * *
They rode near the camp in the morning. There was no need to hide. Many stray Indians and traders had come to see what the Brules would do. Red Tomahawk knew that he would not be recognized, but he traded ponies with Deer Tracker to make identification more difficult.
There was much turmoil in the camp. The women wailed and trilled their birdlike cries. Braves argued and shouted at the fort.
"I will not give myself to the white soldiers," shouted one young man. "I will die here on this ground first."
"What will the soldiers do to men who have killed whites?" asked another.
Some men rushed out and lifted their breech-clouts at the soldiers who watched from their gun positions at the fort. Warriors went among them, trying to calm them. Most were chased back inside the camp.
Red Tomahawk rode close enough to see many things.
Deer Tracker followed him uneasily.
"Do not stay too close to the soldier guns," he warned.
They heard a shout and saw the people gather in little clumps to watch what was happening.
"Look!" said Red Tomahawk. "There!"
Spotted Tail, Long Chin and Red Leaf, mounted on their best horses, rode through the camp in slow procession. They were dressed in their finest ceremonial buckskins, their beads glistening in the sun, their eagle feathers waving gracefully in the gentle breeze that blew up from the river.
Red Tomahawk felt the bumps rise on his arms. A chill flowed over his skin and the small hairs at the back of his neck rose up.
"This is a good day to die," sang the three great warriors and the silence in the camp was thick as the air in the summer moons. They sang their death songs and paraded around the camp for all to see. The little children were suddenly quiet, struck dumb by the ominous chants of their elders.
Then, the three rode out of camp, toward the soldier guns. They sang in strong voices.
The words sent another chill up Red Tomahawk's spine.
"We are going to the soldier chief," they chanted, "to give ourselves to him as the men he wants to punish. We are not beaten, but we want to die with our women and children in the iron house."
A great keening rose up among the women and some of them came out to plead with the warriors not to go up to the fort.
Iron Shell stalked away from the camp and shouted to them.
"Do not be foolish! Do not die so easily. You are Lakota!"
But the men did not heed him, nor did they seem to hear the terrible pleas of the women who followed after them to give them comfort. Nor did they seem to hear the horrible keening that billowed out of the camp like a thunder and wafted across the plain toward the white man's fort.
Instead, the three men sat straight on their horses and plodded onward toward certain death.
Red Tomahawk sat Deer Tracker's pony, an anger in him that turned his face hard. He wanted to shout at the brave men too. He looked at the crowd of onlookers and saw Curly, standing alone. Curly turned his head and looked straight at him. The distance between them was great and he knew it was Curly only because his hair was so pale and white in the sun. He was sure that Curly could not recognize him from this far away.
Yet, Curly held his gaze for a long time and it seemed he could feel his friend's eyes burning into him, burning into his heart.
And then the warriors rode up to the fort and the gates swallowed them up as if they had never been there at all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Red Tomahawk waited in the morning mists, his back flat against the rock, his bow in his left hand, an arrow with an iron point nocked to the gut-string. His own breath made little clouds and the cold seeped through his moccasins, through the open places of his plain buckskins made for him by Lady Walking Crow, but growing smaller now that he was growing so fast.
He could see the game path to the creek, the place where the deer came to drink on Lodgepole Creek, south of the Holy Road along the Shell. He was hungry for good meat, fresh meat. The hunting had been bad north of the river and the rabbit he had killed a week ago had been stringy and tough. There was the taste of coming snow in the air. The rising sun was drawing out the cool of the earth and he could feel its draft on his leggings. He shivered, rubbed the backs of his hands, made fists to warm his fingers, keep the warm blood flowing so that he could shoot true. The slight breeze blew against him, did not shift.
Yesterday he had seen droppings, fresh rubs along the game trail, a scrape that gave off the musk of a buck deer in the rut. This part of the stream was heavily tracked: a crossing, a place where the buck came to drink. He knew the deer was small, from the rubs. One small sapling had been driven into the ground by the buck's antlers, the earth gouged where he had pawed with his hooves, dug with his sharp tines.
He had not seen Deer Tracker in a half dozen suns. The Hunkpatila had been with him when they watched Long Chin, Spotted Tail and Red Leaf go down the Holy Road with the soldiers, iron chains on their wrists and ankles. They had seen Iron Shell turn his face away from the whites for doing this thing; heard him shout to the Brules that it was better to die fighting than go down the road of no return like an animal.
The keening of the women still rang in Red Tomahawk's ears. Deer Tracker had gone off to the trader's place, asking that his new friend go with him. But Red Tomahawk did not want to see a white face. He rode south, across the river, and came to this place where the soldiers did not hunt Indians for sport.
Something crashed in the brush on the other side of the creek. Red Tomahawk brought his bow up slowly, ready to pull back on the arrow. He heard a buck snort. A few seconds later, two does walked past a clearing, tails flicking. They disappeared and a moment later, a big mule buck ran after them. Too far for a bow shot. It was quiet for
a while. Then, the little buck came down the path, flicking its black-tipped tail. There was a fresh wound on its rump, red with blood.
Closer and closer it came, rubbery nostrils twitching, its ears perked. Red Tomahawk almost laughed aloud. The yearling wanted a doe and the big buck had chased him off. The little buck was half blind with the lust-heat of the rut. It came to the stream, looked across at Red Tomahawk without seeing the hunter. It lowered its head to nibble from the flowing water.
Red Tomahawk brought his bow and arrow up slowly, pulling back on the string. He took quick aim, resting his nock-holding hand on his cheek. He sighted down the shaft, released his fingers. The arrow whispered through the air, thudded into the buck's side, just behind its foreleg. The animal reared back, fell on its side. It got up, glaze-eyed, tried to steady itself. Its head flicked backwards as if trying to dislodge the arrow. But it was sunk deep in its lung.
Red Tomahawk was already running fast down the slope, drawing his knife. His quiver flapped against his hip as he jumped stones to cross the creek. The little buck whirled, tried to run. Its forelegs crumpled and frothy blood bubbled from its mouth.
The Oglala pounced on the spike buck's back. He dropped his bow, grabbed its chin, pulled it back hard. His knife flashed as he drew it deep across the animal's neck. Fresh blood gushed from the wound. The animal kicked and shuddered.
Red Tomahawk's mouth watered and his stomach fluttered with excitement. The little buck kicked one last time and let out a long raspy wheeze.
The young man flipped the animal over on its back, raised his knife to cut off the scent glands so that he would not spoil the meat.
That's when he heard a sound a few long paces away.
He looked up, saw the painted face.
Pawnee!
His nerves whipped taut with a sudden tingling. Without thinking, he dropped the deer's head and rose up. He ran straight for the Pawnee brave, brandishing his knife. A savage kill-cry rose up in his throat.
The Pawnee loosed a war-cry, charged. He was a strong young brave, and he carried both a warclub and knife. Red Tomahawk closed the distance, ducked under the swing of the club. The heavy stone whished over his head. He dove for the Pawnee's middle, ramming with his knife.
He struck the enemy brave in the crotch, missed with his knife. The two fighters went down. Red Tomahawk swung his left fist into the Pawnee's throat. The warrior grabbed his hair. The two rolled over, each struggling to stay on top of the other.
The warclub came up over Red Tomahawk's head as the Pawnee straddled him. He sliced downward with his knife, cutting through buckskin, striking flesh. The knife raked the ribs of the Pawnee. At the last moment, Red Tomahawk kicked hard and rolled. The warclub thudded into the ground.
The Oglala grabbed the Pawnee's wrist, squeezed hard. He shook the wrist until the warclub flew out of the brave's hand, smacked into a willow tree.
Grunting and scrambling, Red Tomahawk eluded the knife thrust that passed close to his groin. He struggled to a squatting position, dove for the Pawnee. His knife stabbed into an arm muscle. The Pawnee screamed, jerked his arm free of the blade. At the same time, he shoved the knife straight at Red Tomahawk's leg.
The Oglala felt a searing pain. Warm, sticky blood gushed from a shallow wound in the thick part of his thigh. Angered, he rolled backwards on his butt, kicked out with a moccasined foot. He struck the brave in the chin, heard his neck crack as his head snapped back.
Red Tomahawk got to his feet, hurled himself headlong on the dazed Pawnee. He drove his knife straight at the brave's chest. The painted warrior made a hideous face and twisted out of the way. The knife sank into his arm, just above the elbow.
The Oglala drove a knee up hard into the Pawnee's crotch. When the man stiffened, Red Tomahawk struck downward, ramming his knife deep into the brave's belly.
A bright red stain spread from the wound, and the Pawnee's eyes clouded up with the frost of pain. Red Tomahawk grimaced and twisted the knife, pushing downward as hard as he could. The enemy fighter opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Red Tomahawk jerked his knife free and stabbed it into the Pawnee's heart. Bone snapped with the force of his blow as rib bones cracked. The knife-tip sank into the meaty muscle of the heart.
The Pawnee let out his breath and it did not return. His eyes fluttered and closed.
Panting, Red Tomahawk pulled his knife slowly out of the chest wound. He wiped the blade on his leggings and drew his knees up underneath him. He looked around, wondering if there were more Pawnees waiting to attack him. He looked down at the dead man, now drenched with blood that no longer flowed.
The young man spat and angrily grabbed the Pawnee's topknot. He cut a circular gash, pulled on the scalplock. The hair made a sticking sound as it separated from the skull. He held up the dripping scalp, grunted with satisfaction.
"Ho, No Name," said a voice.
Red Tomahawk jerked, whirled around, readying his blade.
Deer Tracker stepped out from behind a clump of trees. Two fresh Pawnee scalps hung from his sash. He grinned at his young friend.
"You killed Pawnee," said Red Tomahawk.
"They were five. That one there ran away."
"Where are the other two?"
Deer Tracker laughed.
"Their ponies head south. We licked them, No Name. And you have a good scalp for your belt."
Red Tomahawk stood up. He kicked the dead brave boldly, stepped away.
He looked at his friend, wiped his knife blade again.
"Did you not find the white traders?"
"They camp at Crow Butte, in secret. There are many Indians who trade with them. There are lodges there, but we must hurry. The Lakota go north, away from the white man's fort."
"I will dress out my deer and eat," said Red Tomahawk, walking away. He knew the tribes would move north for the winter. He thought of Curly, with the Brules, knew he would be gone, too. He emptied the bowels of the deer, ate the heart raw. He cut off a chunk of liver, tossed it to Deer Tracker.
"Good," said the man, rubbing his belly. "Let us take the deer from this place and cook it."
"Yes."
"Then we go to the trading place and hear the news."
"Did you see Tesson there?"
"Tesson? You ask of this man? Why?"
"I would know if he has left the white man's fort."
"I did not see him."
"His nephew, Black Knife. Was he there?"
Deer Tracker's eyes narrowed. He licked his lips, then his eyes flickered. He looked away from Red Tomahawk, drew in a breath.
"I do not know of this man. Why do you ask of him too?"
Some instinct told Red Tomahawk to say no more. He thought that Deer Tracker was talking with a forked tongue.
He skinned the deer, butchered it. Then, he wrapped the pieces in the green hide and tied it into a bundle he could sling over his shoulder. He picked up his bow.
"You did not answer my question about Black Knife."
"I do not know him," said Red Tomahawk, "but I have heard his name. I was told he might be a cousin of mine."
Deer Tracker looked at Red Tomahawk a long time without saying anything. Then, he shrugged and walked away.
"I will get my pony. We will ride up the creek to a place where we can make a fire. Tomorrow we go north to Crow Butte. Maybe you will find your cousin there."
"My pony is hobbled up on the hill above this place. I will meet you upstream."
Red Tomahawk watched his friend walk away. For some reason he no longer trusted him. But, he would go to the trading place and see if Black Knife was there.
They roasted the good parts of the deer over glowing coals in the shadow of a small bluff. This was a good place, safe from enemies. During the night, it grew cold and before morning it had started to snow.
When Red Tomahawk woke up, Deer Tracker was gone.
This was not a bad thing. But no meat had been taken and his weapons were where he had left them when he crawled into his
robe.
He chewed on cooked deer meat left from the night before and packed his goods. Lashed his bundles to his pony and made ready to ride north. The snow fell heavily now and he drew his buffalo robe round him after he mounted his pony.
He rode south to avoid passing close to the fort, even though it was out of his way. As he came out of the woods, he saw Deer Tracker riding toward him, leading two ponies.
"I could not find the other one," he said. "But one of these is yours."
"Mine?"
"It belonged to the Pawnee you killed. You are becoming a rich man, No Name."
"I thought you had ridden off because of those things I asked you about Tesson and Black Knife."
"Why would I do that? In my hunger, I forgot about the Pawnee horses and I tracked them through the snow before you opened your eyes."
Deer Tracker held out the braided rope bridle to Red Tomahawk.
"Take your pony. I did not ride away from you, my young friend. Why should I care about those two men? I do not know them."
Again, Red Tomahawk felt that Deer Tracker was lying. He did not know why he felt this, but the feeling was strong in him. As they rode off toward the Shell, the white man's Platte, Red Tomahawk stayed a little behind so that he would not present his back to Deer Tracker.
He was curious about the trading place because he knew that the soldier chief had forbidden the Indians to go to any of these. He was curious about Deer Tracker, too, wondering why a man would say he was a friend and then not speak straight about even small matters. There was no way the Hunkpatila could know why he was looking for Black Knife, yet he pretended he did not know of him. Was Black Knife hiding from the Lakota after killing Snow Wolf? Was he hiding in the white man's fort? These were things he wanted to know, but he knew he would not ask Deer Tracker again.
Nor would he ever sleep so sound that his eyes would not open when Deer Tracker got up from his sleeping robes.