by Will DuRey
It didn’t take long for the fire’s heat to take effect. The excess water that had splashed on his shoulders and chest from the soaked rawhide dried in seconds. Within minutes Wes could feel the rawhide biting into his neck. He breathed deeply through his nose. Swallowing was painful. The medicine man danced, waving his rattle, chanting his words, passing before the victim’s eyes a lance adorned with many dry scalps. Wes tried not to look at them but it was impossible to move his head. He grunted for air as the choker tightened.
An arrow thudded into the frame above his head, then, accompanied by a single wild yell, another struck, eye-high, in the angle between his upraised right arm and his head. Breathing hurt. It felt as though the shrinking rawhide was cutting through Wes’s neck. His vision was blurred. Sounds were blending into a rushing wind which climaxed with the excited cries of the women. His lungs were close to bursting, his windpipe was almost crushed. He was gagging for air.
At that point, when he was unsure whether his lungs or his heart would be the first to burst, the binding around his neck was cut and his head lolled forward. With painful gasps he sucked in air. The sound in his throat matched that of the rattle carried by the medicine man. Wes wanted to rub his throat, massage it to open the passageway to his lungs. He needed to bend his body so that he could take in more air. But movement of all kind was impossible. His lungs ached, his heart pounded and it felt as though a wild stallion had trampled on his windpipe.
Then water splashed in his face, concentrating his thoughts on the senses of life. The roaring in his ears subsided and he realized that the only sounds he could hear were the crackling of the fire and his own laboured breathing. He opened his eyes. Gradually he was able to focus on the figure before him. It was the chief, uncaring of the prisoner’s pain, unexcited by his torment, stoically examining his face. When he was certain that Wes recognized him he indicated with his lance for the medicine man to come forward. Wes prayed that the ordeal was over.
Water dripped again from the advancing Medicine Man’s hands. Silently he tied a new strip of rawhide around the scout’s throat. This done, he raised his arms and emitted a wild yell. Despite the pain, Wes breathed deeply, clinging dearly to life, but already his lungs felt as though they were trying to break through his ribcage. His eyes closed, but only for a moment. A sharp blow struck his forehead, followed by another on his neck. A throng of braves had formed around him, each one determined to strike him, to add to his humiliation in retribution for the killing of the boys. The tom-toms were thudding and the night was filled with whoops and trills of a celebrating village.
It seemed that the rawhide did its work more quickly the second time, or perhaps Wes was just less resilient. He passed out with the accumulation of blows and slow asphyxiation.
For a second time he was revived and, when the chief had assured himself again that Wes was aware of what was happening, he signalled once more to the medicine man. Though the binding around his throat had been released and he was able to breathe air into his body, the pressure and pain Wes felt was no less severe. As the shaman tied the wet rawhide a third time, Wes knew it would be the last.
This time, the medicine man’s wild yell brought the women to their feet. Through the flames their knives glinted. Though the tom-toms continued their beat the people were silent. Two women advanced and stood before Wes, watching the rawhide tighten and dig into the taut skin at his throat. The last breath was being choked out of him. In his pain and loss of consciousness, noises blurred together and faces became indistinguishable. But the women were moving as a throng. With his last thought he knew they were coming for him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the blackness brought about by slow asphyxiation, Wes Gray’s body wouldn’t have registered the pain from the expected slashes of mutilation, nor his mind acknowledge that one telling blow of death. As the women advanced, the leaping flames of the council fire glinting off their short, sharp knives, Wes succumbed without resistance to the darkness of oblivion. His last vexations before being swallowed by the great void were that the wagons would have to face the crossing of the Platte without him and that there was no way back to Little Feather, the Arapaho girl who shared his tepee in the village on the Snake.
He had undertaken a great journey, a strange journey in a world in which there was nothing. There were no landmarks to signpost the way or mark his passing. There were no people to speak to or animals to follow, no trees or plants to provide shade or sustenance. He had no horse beneath him, or wagon to ride, or canoe to carry him, but he needed none of those for there was neither land nor water beneath him. Yet it was indeed a journey, though he needed no food or drink or weapons or tools to tackle it. All he needed was the belief to proceed without trepidation and trust that his destination was not to be feared.
Sudden sounds scattered the nothingness like a gunshot scatters geese. Colours flashed before his eyes. Red, black and yellow. But still there was no guiding light to shine the way ahead. There was no surface to swim to, no summit to scale. From time to time there seemed to be flashes of the real world. Shapes, like wraiths, lingered, swaying close, and on each occasion bringing with them the pattern of red and black and yellow. In those brief moments he knew again the pain he had suffered at the hands of the Sioux; a dull reminder, he supposed, that he was to carry with him into the hereafter.
When his eyes opened they did so like those of a cougar disturbed by an unfamiliar sound. He lay still, knowing it was important to gather whatever information he could about his present situation. Befuddled, and because his last conscious thought had been of death, the words of a preacher reading over a cousin’s coffin filled his head: In my Father’s house there are many rooms. . . .
It took a few seconds to shake off the notion that this might be one of those rooms. He had expected rather more of Heaven than the rustic furniture by which he was now surrounded.
He moved his head so that he could see through a partly open door that led into another room. Wes closed his eyes, a necessary act because the images were becoming blurred and beginning to spin. He breathed deeply, controlling the pace of his heartbeats, giving his other senses the opportunity to gather information.
The overriding sensation was one of pain, especially a tightness about his throat. Remembrance of the thrice-applied rawhide strip flooded his mind. He raised his fingers to his neck and traced the deep groove that had been formed. He swallowed, expecting and experiencing pain. Though it hardly seemed possible, it confirmed that he was alive. For a moment he imagined himself still bound to the frame of poles, once again he saw the firelight glinting on the blades of the advancing women.
The thought of their intentions gripped his stomach like an icy hand and, grateful though he was to have survived, the possibilities of what the women had done to him brought a sweat to his brow. He moved gingerly, but that excited pain in almost every part of his body. His back and shoulders had borne the burden of the beating when running their gauntlet and now the resulting swellings and abrasions were becoming a growing source of torment.
One by one he checked off his faculties. The realization that his sight and hearing were intact eased away his worries. With difficulty he moved his tongue. The combination of thirst and the effects of strangulation made it difficult to speak, but he managed to produce a hoarse sound, which was evidence that maybe no permanent damage had been done.
Cautiously he raised the blanket. Long leaves from river rushes covered his chest: from beneath them a green unguent oozed: an Indian remedy that had been smeared on his body to cure the cuts inflicted by the medicine man. Raising the blanket higher, he was able to see all the way to his toes. He was still naked, but there were no other wounds.
Then he realized that someone’s voice was carrying to him from outdoors. The severity of its monotone, coupled with the aroma of coffee coming from the adjoining room, provided Wes with a clue to where he now was. The voice he could hear belonged to Jim Taylor; although no other voice was raised
in argument against him, Jim’s tone was strident, angry, threatening.
Wes tried to sit up but a pain as agonizing as any that he had experienced shot through his head. With a groan he lowered it to the pillow. When he put his hand to his brow he discovered that a poultice, putty-like and ill-smelling, similar to those on his chest, had been applied to the head wound. While he was inspecting the greenish unguent, the door to the room opened wider and Jim’s wife, Apo Hopa, entered.
Her expression showed concern, but Wes suspected that it was not all for him. Her glance towards the window betrayed the fact that she was also worried about the events that were happening outside. She’d brought with her a bowl of water from which she allowed Wes two sips. Then she placed her cool hand on his brow and, miraculously, for him the room stopped spinning.
Having thus attained a more settled state of mind Wes was anxious to have his questions answered. With swift hand movements and few words the Sioux girl told him what she knew. He had been saved from death by her brother, who had returned to the village with the stolen ponies and many scalps. Throws The Dust had identified Wes as Wiyaka Wakan, Medicine Feather of the Arapaho, and declared that it was he who had directed the Ogallalah warriors to the camp of the Shoshone raiders. Although his life had been spared, Wes wondered if the Sioux still harboured plans to punish other white people for the slaying of the boys.
‘Red Knife will not permit it,’ Apo Hopa told him, ‘but Black Raven and Pawnee Killer, the fathers of the dead boys, still want revenge. They will challenge Red Knife’s leadership. If they win they will follow the warpath.’
It occurred to Wes that the sound of Jim Taylor’s harangue had been going on ever since he’d regained consciousness. Now Jim’s tone was rising, he was spitting forth a mighty torrent of abuse and threat, like the cant of a hell-fire preacher. Sky turned her head towards the sound, worry-lines crinkled her brow and concern gleamed in her eyes.
‘Who is he shouting at?’ Wes asked.
‘My people,’ she said. ‘A hunting party. Throws The Dust rides with them. He came to see if you have recovered.’
‘Why doesn’t he come in?’
‘My husband will not let him into the house. He doesn’t welcome anyone. He stands with gun. My people think he will shoot them.’
‘Surely not your brother?’
‘My brother. My father. Even white soldiers when they come.’
‘Is he not made welcome when he visits Red Knife’s village?’
‘We never go. We haven’t been since he took me from Grey Moccasin’s tepee.’
Wes couldn’t believe that Jim Taylor had spurned the opportunity for friendship with Sky’s people. Whatever thoughts were occupying his mind, they were isolating him more than the land or weather ever could. Wes felt sorry for Sky. She had given up her family and friends to live with a man unprepared to adapt to his surroundings. On his previous visit Wes hadn’t heard him utter one word of Sioux or use even the most common signs of the Plains tribes.
Almost as though she could read his thoughts Apo Hopa signed that her husband was a good man.
Well, Wes thought, it certainly sounds as though he is prepared to protect her and fight for her. But he wasn’t convinced that that was all Sky wanted.
‘Now I must go,’ she said. ‘Throws The Dust waits for me to tell him that all is well.’
Wes touched the poultice on his brow. ‘And is it?’
She smiled, pressed her fingers against the hand she was holding.
‘It is well,’ she said. ‘I must go.’
It wasn’t easy but, when Apo Hopa left the bedroom Wes sat up, determined to ignore the wooziness in his head and to find out for himself what was happening outside. In these circumstances he didn’t think that shouting at the Sioux was the wisest thing to do, not even for Jim Taylor, whose reason had been sorely affected by the loneliness of the plains.
Although the Sioux had great tolerance for those who were eccentric, or just plain crazy, Wes also knew that that tolerance, based on the religious belief that such people had been singled out by Waka Tanka, the Great Spirit, would be instantly terminated if the madness turned to violence.
Furthermore, Jim Taylor wasn’t a Sioux, and, apart from taking Sky as his wife, had never shown any respect for her people. Some from the village were looking for the scalps of white men to avenge the deaths of Little Otter and Pony Holder. Even those who did not share the warlike views of Black Raven and Pawnee Killer would be angry over the killing of the boys.
It hadn’t escaped Wes Gray’s attention that the deaths of the two boys could also be bad news for the wagon train. Who had killed the boys, and why, were immaterial to Black Raven and his supporters. Two of their children were dead and they didn’t care whose life was taken in return. The next prisoner might not have anyone to intercede on his behalf, as Throws The Dust had done for him. The fact that the wagons were several days’ journey from the spot where the killings took place would be of no significance if the Sioux rode in that direction. Wes considered it imperative to get a warning to Caleb Dodge.
Using the wall and whatever furniture he could reach for support, he made his way, naked, out of the bedroom. Progress wasn’t easy and he stumbled more than once, cursing as the door between the rooms seem to shift position after every step. When eventually he stumbled into the main room he was surprised to find another person in there.
She turned and gasped at the scout’s sudden appearance. Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth, as if to suggest that the tumult in the yard was less threatening to her than the naked man across the room.
Wes studied the girl for a moment, taking in the long red travelling dress, which was in need of some attention. The fabric was torn in several places, and dust and grime clung to it. Her face, too, showed signs of an ordeal. Patches of discoloration – the results of physical abuse by Clem Butler – emphasized the paleness of her skin.
Even so, Wes recalled the photograph Captain O’Malley had found in the abandoned stagecoach and the conversation he’d had with Sky’s brother. He muttered words intended merely to prompt his own fractured memory but spoken loud enough for the girl to hear.
‘Ellie Rogers?’
The girl’s eyes widened further, her hands remained in front of her mouth. She nodded. She was younger than Wes had expected and, despite the bruises and cuts, prettier.
They studied each other for an instant but Wes’s attention was soon drawn back to the argument going on beyond the threshold, where Jim Taylor was declaring that the land and everything on it were his, and that no thievin’ Injun was taking it from him.
Wes crossed the room to the open doorway. Jim was standing to his right, almost at the corner of the cabin. He held his rifle across his body, prepared to turn it on anyone who stepped out of line. Facing him, in that familiar semi-circle formation, were ten mounted Sioux warriors. Wes recognized some of them. They were watching Jim Taylor in chilling silence, their expressions as impassive as their ponies were motionless.
As long as Jim did no more than shout and gesticulate there was little danger to him. The Sioux understood not a word he was saying, nor the meaning of his wildly waving hands. Bemused by his voice and movement, they believed him to be touched by a spirit. One day, they expected, the power that he had been given would be revealed.
That was why they watched in silence now and why they had watched him from the hills in the past. If the power was for good and peace they would honour him. If it ever changed to bring evil and violence they would kill him.
Sky was standing beside her husband now, holding his arm to make it difficult for him to raise his rifle. She was talking to him, pleading with him to return to the house; but, just as the Sioux didn’t understand his words, so her exhortations were meaningless to him. Even if he could have taken them in it was probably too late; Jim Taylor was beyond listening to reason. The delusions in his mind had control of him and concealed from him any threat to his life.
&nb
sp; The appearance of Wes Gray in the doorway distracted the Sioux from the raving farmer. The warrior at the end of the line turned to face Wes. It was Throws The Dust; his face was completely painted with broad bands of red, black and yellow, as it had been when they’d spoken at the creek, and as had been the combination of colours that had occasionally presented itself to Wes during his unconscious journey from the Indian village.
‘A-Hey!’ shouted Throws The Dust, half as a greeting and half as an exclamation of surprise. He had come expecting to see Wes covered with blankets, yet here he was, on his feet and stretching out an arm in a gesture of welcome. Performing the arm movement was awkward and painful because of the injuries to his shoulders and chest, but Wes did it in full. If he was to continue travelling the trails through Sioux territory it was essential that the warriors retained respect for him. He could not appear weak and defeated.
Using the porch rail for support, he kept his head high and his back straight. He had to show that his spirit had not been broken by the ordeal suffered in their village. They had to understand his strength and determination: that he would either be a brave ally, or a dangerous enemy. Though waves of dizziness threatened to topple him to the ground, he stood firm, knowing that, from his pony, Throws The Dust was examining the bruises and bindings on his head and upper body.
The slight breeze disturbed the feathers and decorations on the lances and war shields of the gathered Lakotas. They fluttered and jingled, giving rise to the lightest music, a faint mix of whistle and drum. Throws The Dust spoke.
‘Wiyaka Wakan is very strong. Only the bravest warrior would be standing after such wounds. In the village we will speak of our friend Medicine Feather. His name will be honoured tonight around our campfires.’
‘And what of the Shoshones, Throws The Dust? Did you find them?’