Cheyenne Captive

by Georgina Gentry - Iron Knife's Family 01 - Cheyenne Captive

  The sun showed just the slightest rose tinge to the eastern sky as they galloped, the Pawnee shouting behind them.

  Exhilarated, Iron Knife hung onto the rope of the little mare as he urged his mount onward and the big stallion easily outdistanced the other horses.

  There was a place the Cheyenne had planned for a trap in case the Pawnee should pursue them—a gully less than a mile from here where they could shoot arrows from the safety of its protected banks.

  Close to him rode Lance Bearer. The others were strung out with the enemy only a few hundred yards behind the last Cheyenne.

  The excitement of the coming battle made him tingle all over and he could smell his own sweat and that of the lathered horses as they raced toward the gully.

  The churning dirt clung to his sweaty skin. He looked back and realized the Pawnee were gaining on the stragglers. The enemy would overtake the slowest of the braves before they could reach the safety of the gully, he realized with a sinking heart. If someone didn’t make a move to stop this retreat, all would be lost. Someone was going to have to make a stand, a battle line to rally the retreating warriors right here on the open plains.

  He wheeled his snorting mount around, looking for Lance Bearer in the drifting dust. There was only one way to stop the retreat and hold the ground and this was the old, old tradition of the hotamtsit.

  For a split second he hesitated, seeing Summer’s face in his mind and not wanting to lay down his life for the others. He rode far out in front of the pack and could easily run away and leave them to their fate. Resolutely, he gritted his teeth and reined in the dancing stallion while the little mare snorted at the end of her rope. He was the bravest of the brave and now he must show he was worthy of the badge of bravery that he carried.

  Jumping from the rearing stallion, he slipped the decorated hide band over his right shoulder and under his left arm and took the wooden stake in his hand. He hesitated only a moment before driving the stake into the ground with his war club. The Cheyenne raced past him although he could tell by the shouts that old Coyote Man and Clouds Above were trying vainly to rally the warriors.

  Glancing over a few hundred feet, he saw Lance Bearer dismounting and doing the same as he did while the stragglers of the Cheyenne thundered between the two men on the ground.

  Here they were, literally pinned to the spot by the ten foot bands. Here they would stay, pledged to fight to the death holding this line or unto victory, which was the meaning of the Dog Rope that only four men held.

  Now that he and his cousin had actually driven the stakes into the ground, there was only one thing besides either victory or death that could free them from their pledge. That was if some Cheyenne managed to ride back and hit them with his quirt, literally driving them from the field of battle.

  The Cheyenne all galloped past him now and he and his cousin, small figures on the flat plain, faced the oncoming Pawnee. They both blew their bone whistles defiantly, hoping to put heart into the retreating warriors.

  On this spot I will die! he thought proudly, wiping the vision of a small, heart-shaped face from his mind so he would no longer be tempted to pull the stake and retreat, thus branding himself as a coward forever.

  His hand hesitated as he thought of her, and then his fingers fitted an arrow to his bow and his old habits took over as he instinctively readied himself and faced the enemy, ready to kill or be killed.

  With his great strength, he pulled the bow and a brave in the oncoming Pawnee line clutched his chest and screamed, sliding from his pony which galloped onward. Iron Knife’s stallion snorted behind him, unwilling to flee the scene without him and the little mare nickered nervously. If he were to be killed, he thought grimly, a Pawnee brave would be riding his fine horse. That alone made him angry enough to give him nerves of steel as he faced the charging enemy.

  The sun was up but the dawn was cold. Still, he could feel the sweat under the Dog Rope across his scarred back as he loosed another arrow and took down another man. Glancing sideways, he saw his cousin at the end of his ceremonial rope, shooting arrows with cold accuracy.

  Ohohyaa! They would both die on this spot! he thought with little emotion as he and the other used their bows with deadly aim and blew their whistles in challenge. The thought came to his mind that he still had time to mount and outride the oncoming enemy and his white half yearned to do just that. But in his heart, he knew he was more Cheyenne than white and he would go down like the Dog Soldier he was. War Bonnet would have been proud, he thought as he used his last arrow and made ready to defend himself against the shouting horde riding toward him with only his lance, war club, and knife.

  Then abruptly, he saw him, the Pawnee chief he had so much reason to hate. Cold fury took over and there were no more thoughts of regret or running away. In the line moving toward him was Bear’s Eyes, Kiri-kuruks.

  He had not seen the big Skidi brave in all these ten years, but his horrible, scarred face would have marked him anywhere—the mouth pulled up, the left eyelid drooping from the grizzly claws across his cheek that had almost torn his face away. Bear’s Eyes wore the traditional roached hair style of his people. He looked heavier than Iron Knife remembered and he wondered if the Skidi had grown soft from years of easy living, scouting for the soldiers.

  The Pawnee were very close now, so close he could see the grins on some of their faces as they made ready to ride down the two Dog Soldiers and trample them into the dust.

  Iron Knife’s heart hammered with excitement and he shook with the fury of revenge. If he could slay the man who had killed his father, he would not mind if he died this morning. For this moment, he had been trained since a baby and ingrained with the thought that this was the most glorious way to die.

  Around the campfire of the Cheyenne, they would tell his story over and over and he dared not think of the tears in the eyes of Summer Sky. Instead, he braced himself for the coming charge of the horses that were only a few hundred feet away.

  Then the retreating war party rallied! He could hear Two Arrows, Clouds Above, and old Coyote Man behind him as they shouted cries of challenge, reining their horses around to come back against the superior force. He heard them shouting as they galloped back, made bold by the show of courage of the two gallant Dog Soldiers. The braves were returning to help hold the battle line that the two lonely figures had made by digging in and pledging to retreat no farther!

  Now he braced himself to take the charge that was so close, he could almost feel the warm breath of the snorting horses. The Cheyenne were thundering in behind him, returning with renewed spirit to the fray. He had a sudden glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe he might live to see his golden-haired woman again!

  The Cheyenne galloped in and met the Pawnee line at the exact instant the oncoming enemy reached the two warriors of the Dog Ropes. For a moment, as they all struggled and fought in the confusion of whirling dust and shouting men, Iron Knife was not sure who was winning or losing. He heard ponies scream in agony as lances gutted them and their riders shrieked, too, as they were caught under the falling horses.

  Coughing, he tasted the grit in his mouth as the dust churned and he could feel the fine particles sticking to the sweat of his straining muscles. He heard the metallic clang of metal on metal as men met in hand-to-hand combat and sometimes the dull thud and scream as a lance buried itself in soft flesh.

  Confusion reigned around him. He swung his war club against an enemy skull and touched the man to count coup, then threw up his shield in time to protect himself from a thrown lance.

  The warm, sweet smell of blood and lathered horses smote his nostrils as he fought. He dodged a rearing, whinnying horse as a tomahawk buried in its chest and it went down kicking and struggling.

  The dust cleared an instant and he recognized Two Arrows nearby holding off two Pawnee. The fine war bonnet of Coyote Man glistened in the early morning light. His uncle, Clouds Above, fought like a charging buffalo bull and Iron Knife felt proud to claim the b
loodline of the aging warrior.

  Then he saw Bear’s Eyes before him, rearing up his pony and sliding off to confront him.

  “Cheyenne wolf whelp!” he snarled as he moved in with his war club ready. “Today, you shall be left here as food for crows!”

  Iron Knife glared back in unspeakable fury as he reached for his knife. The ugly face brought memories flooding back of Texanna, of the day his father had died in his arms because of this Pawnee. He thought of all the disasters that had befallen his people because of the stealing of the Sacred Arrows and he thirsted for revenge.

  “No! It is your day to die, Pawnee dog!” he shouted. “I have vowed your death on both the bodies of my mother and my father, War Bonnet, and no one shall count first coup on you today but me!”

  As they crouched facing each other, Iron Knife realized the man was every bit as tall as he and heavier. Already, the paunch of middle age, soft living, and rich food from hanging around the forts showed in the Pawnee’s build. Still he was a fierce and powerful man, an enemy to be reckoned with.

  They meshed, and Iron Knife threw up his shield arm to protect himself as the other’s war club came down to split his skull. But it struck instead on the tough, bull hide shield and glanced off. As they locked in mortal combat, Iron Knife was thrown off balance by the Dog Rope that held him to this spot. The stress and pull on the stake brought it up out of the ground and he stumbled at the sudden release.

  Now he could move and dodge and that put him on an equal footing with his adversary. Shouting triumphantly, he moved warily toward the other. He thought of nothing now but his revenge, spilling the blood of his old enemy and counting coup on his dead body. Around them, the heated battle raged and ponies snorted and stumbled, men fought and screamed.

  Bear’s Eyes brought the war club down again but this time Iron Knife did not move fast enough and he felt the blinding impact as the weapon caught a glancing blow on the side of his head, knocking his raven feather bonnet away. For a moment, he could not see or hear and he felt blood running warm and sticky down his head. He saw the Pawnee only as a dim shadow before him but he swung his own war club and Bear’s Eyes grabbed his arm and twisted it, throwing him to one side as the weapon clattered to the ground.

  He hung onto his knife with his other hand but it was not as deadly a weapon as the war club and the other knew it. Dimly in his ringing ears came the voice of the Pawnee laughing triumphantly. “And now I kill you, Cheyenne carrion, and leave you for the scavengers!”

  Iron Knife dodged away, shaking his head vainly to clear it and his vision gradually improved.

  The Skidi reached out and grabbed the trailing Dog Rope, using the sharp wooden stake as a weapon. But Iron Knife was his old self now. He was too quick for the big, paunchy Pawnee as Iron Knife reached out and wrapped the hide band around the other’s legs, tripping him.

  They were on the ground, fighting and struggling, each holding the other’s hand. Iron Knife had his big blade but the other had a war club and each kept the other from using the weapon as they rolled over and over in the dust. They rolled right under the hooves of fighting, plunging ponies as the din of battle raged around them.

  A Pawnee screamed and fell from his horse in agony, grabbing at the lance that impaled him. He fell almost on the struggling pair.

  Iron Knife glanced over and saw Two Arrows and Lance Bearer fighting bravely side by side against three Skidi warriors and he knew he had to finish this and go to the aid of his cousins.

  But now he fought for his own life again as Bear’s Eyes came down with his war club and Iron Knife slammed the man’s wrist against his knee and the weapon clattered away. He raised his own knife but the Skidi twisted his arm and the big knife fell to the ground between his feet.

  Bear’s Eyes’ fingers gripped his throat, and the ugly face smiled as he tightened his grip, slowly choking the life from him. Iron Knife tried to break the hold as he stared into the livid, scarred face but the heavier man was forcing him to his knees. He pulled at the man’s fingers as he gasped for breath and the Pawnee forced him down on his back on the ground.

  Iron Knife started to black out. He realized it with a frenzy as he tried to break the choke-hold. He gasped for air and his throat seemed to be on fire as the torn face grinned at his struggles.

  His knife! Could he reach his knife? Somewhere on the ground near his head lay the big blade. Iron Knife fumbled above his head, feeling across the grass for the weapon. The Pawnee seemed blind to anything now but the death grip he locked on Iron Knife’s throat.

  Frantically, he felt in the dirt behind his head, gasping for air, knowing his vision was fast fading into blackness. It seemed inevitable that his scalp would hang tonight from the Pawnee’s lodge pole.

  He grasped the sharp blade by the handle! But he wasn’t sure he could achieve the effort it took to raise its suddenly heavy weight as he began to drift into unconsciousness. Then as he began to pass out and give up, he saw a small, pale face in his mind and he couldn’t die, he couldn’t leave her!

  With superhuman effort, he willed himself back to consciousness and found the strength to raise the knife. His vision cleared in that split second and he saw the other’s eyes widen in surprise as the Pawnee saw the knife for the first time in his mad dog rage.

  The blade flashed in the sun as it started downward. The Pawnee tried to loose his hold on Iron Knife’s throat in time to grab the knife but his fingers were locked and his eyes shone in terror as he seemed to realize that fact.

  Bear’s Eyes screamed in panic and he turned loose of Iron Knife’s throat but it was already too late. The blade flashed downward burying in the man’s chest to the hilt.

  The Pawnee stumbled to his feet, grabbing at the handle of the dagger and he almost looked bewildered by the bright blood pumping out between his fingers. He stood thus only a moment, the blood running through his hands and dripping to the dirt before he gasped and fell, crashing like a great tree that has finally been cut down.

  With a shrill cry of victory, Iron Knife touched the man with his bare hand and shouted, “Oh, Haih! I am the first to count coup on this enemy!”

  Then he retrieved his weapons and ran to help his embattled cousins, counting coup on another Pawnee as he fought his way across the ground.

  But the tide of battle was clearly turning. The Pawnee who still could were fleeing the field, chased by victorious Cheyenne. In another minute, it had become a complete route, with the Skidi escaping before the smaller force.

  They shouted insults after the fleeing losers and some mounted up to chase them. The rest stopped to take scalps and look to see how their own friends fared.

  In stunned relief, Iron Knife looked around and realized though there were a few minor wounds, the Cheyenne had not had a single man killed.

  He helped Lance Bearer pull his pin from the ground as they stared after the escaping Pawnee who weren’t even stopping at their camp but were joining their women in running across the plains.

  Coyote Man approached Iron Knife. “Our men were frightened and fleeing before the superior force. You two gave them heart to ride back into the fray. Your names will be long remembered and stories told around the campfires of your exploits.”

  Iron Knife smiled modestly. “We only did our duty, oh, chief of the Hofnowa.”

  Clouds Above rode up and spat on the dead body of the Skidi chief and looked at Iron Knife proudly. “You have avenged my brother,” he said. “I have long awaited this day. Now let us ride into the Pawnee camp and reclaim what those worthless dogs have stolen from our people.”

  The Pawnee still fled across the prairie. The war party did not pursue them but rode into the camp and looted it as victors have always done. From the tepee where he had taken the chestnut mare, Iron Knife found his father’s war bonnet very carefully put away in a parfleche box. He recognized it as his father’s immediately because along the band that held the eagle feathers were dragonflies to protect the wearer and on the front-most d
ragonfly, a tiny bluebonnet flower shone on its back.

  His eyes misted as he stroked the feathers, remembering vividly both his parents and all the joy and pain of his youth. Long ago, he had vowed revenge and determined that someday he would reclaim his father’s war bonnet. Now he could hardly believe that after all these years, it belonged to his family again.

  They looked throughout the camp for the Sacred Arrows, and not finding them decided the Pawnee had made good their threat to destroy the magic objects.

  The Tsistsistas regrouped, and gathering up all the Pawnee horses, they headed back south, driving the great herd before them.

  The trip back was so much easier than the trip up now that the battle was over and in spite of a few minor wounds, no Cheyenne had been killed. Iron Knife was joyous, for he had done all he had set out to do in retrieving the war bonnet and slaying his old enemy. Also, he would be a rich man from his share of the captured ponies. The little mare ran freely along next to his big Appaloosa and his heart sang since he had found not only a suitable mount for his woman but also a mate for Spotted Blanket.

  When they returned, there would be a triumphant scalp dance and his woman could proudly wear the new coup stripes painted on her arm or across her light hair to boast of her man’s brave deeds.

  There did not seem to be any dispute this time over whom the various coups belonged to as he had occasionally seen in the past. If that had happened, a meeting would have been called when they returned to camp. Each man who claimed a disputed coup would have to swear he spoke the truth about his claim while touching a specially painted buffalo skull placed with a rifle and four arrows representing the Sacred Ones. No one would think of lying as he took this oath, for if he did he would surely die.

  The war party had found the enemy sooner than expected so they were returning several days before the camp would be expecting their return. It was important to them to make a triumphant entry. For this reason, when they had ridden close enough to their Cheyenne camp to hear the dogs barking on the other side of the ridge, they camped for the night and made ready to march through the camp in a victory parade at dawn.