Caspion had other plans. Through the long winter evenings Moneva had related many tales of old, old times—of battles, dreams, journeys, and myths; her words sang softly like flames lapping the air, warming his soul. He never tired of listening. Time and again she recited the legend of Motsiiuiv, the Culture Hero, of how Sweet Medicine first received his teachings from the Ancient Ones while seated in a secret cave of the Sacred Mountain, Bear Butte, located in the Black Hills, He Sapa of the Lakota Sioux. Hearing this, he promised to take her there one day, at which she smiled, surprised and happy. That winter he turned more to the Cheyenne tongue; it governed his thoughts, emerged in his dreams, expressed his moods, and voiced his longings. From her tales he formed his plans, broached to her the prior evening. They’d travel west through the Blue Vision to the Great Snow-Capped Rockies and acquire fine straight poles for her lodge. They’d summer in a high hidden valley, then journey north in early Autumn through the Powder River Country onto the Plains of Wyoming, Montana, and Dakota, where the buffalo still roamed in peace and plenty, where they dared dream of blending with her Northern Tribe. His words filled her with joy, as he later warmed her flesh, making love in the robes as the fire burned low and she nursed him with her thighs and let him taste the sweet milk bleeding from her breast.
To provide meat for their journey, he’d make one last hunt. Outside the lodge, before the cool gray dawn, their vapored breath met in a warm kiss; their silhouettes merged then parted. Caspion mounted up; Moneva waved to him: “Good hunting, Nameho.” He rode south. A windless morn, a light drizzle fell, good to keep his scent from wary prey. Ascending the hill a mile beyond camp, he noted the sun edging the eastern rim, casting a shaft of light beneath the clouds; below, a raven glided over the trees, indifferent to pursuing songbirds. Good to see the winged one once more. All signs favored the hunter.
Cupé too saw the raven; had sighted none since autumn—perhaps the wolf and buffalo would soon return; perhaps Cupé would no longer feel so adrift in the land that claimed his soul. He ambled down to the creek to gather the hides left soaking overnight. Hatchet Paw tended the fire by her lodge; she used a timeworn staff to stir the tanning mixture, bringing it to a boil. Through the tapestry of trees the blue smoke held perfectly still, motionless in a horizontal drift, like a vaporous scythe cutting ghost-like through the limbs. Cupé knelt to the water’s edge, dipped his hand to sip and saw his reflection ripple—startled as he heard the raven call…as if named. He glanced up, transfixed by the gaze of “Tall Hat Long Tail” and the mute Osage mounted alongside. Other grim-faced horsemen materialized from the mist.
“Ah! Hai-Yah!”—Cupé gave a shout of fury and alarm as he sprang to his feet with his knife drawn. Time Face charged and plunged his lance through the chest. At impact Cupé cleared the ground, his body heft lurching in the air, no longer possessed of thought or voice, only blood-belched agony and death.
Hearing her husband’s war-cry, Hatchet Paw reacted swiftly, grabbed her camp-ax and hissed to Moneva emerging curious from her lodge: “Take Hesta! Go quick! Hide you!” She stood fierce, compelling, instinctual, had suffered an attack when still a child and remembered. As the rider’s appeared through the trees, Moneva ducked inside.
At the sight of Cupé hanging limp like a speared rabbit from the lance of the giant Osage, Hatchet Paw raced forth in rage to avenge her heart. And it was her maddened charge that delayed them and gained Moneva a moment. She quickly bound Little Red Bird in the baby-board, secreted the madstone, and wrapped all in the black robe. Then, slipping under the lodge-skin, she gathered up her precious bundle and ran for the thicket beyond the meadow north. Her vision swirled in a violent rush of thought and image—all upheaval, frayed and distorted to a soul in panic. Hills rose and fell beneath the folding sky; the ground about her spun dizzily past as if shedding its skin; and through the length of the valley the long dormant one stirred, uncoiling from its nest to raise its venomous head—Nae’van—the serpent’s breath drew near till its slit-eyes leveled to seize its victim.
The world suddenly turned on its edge, plunging down a precipice, the cruel Veho everywhere, assailing with strident whoops and hollers. Horsemen lassoed the lodges and trampled the contents. The guitar “twanged” in shatters; its discordant note followed by jagged silence. And they had roped Hatchet Paw and dragged her forth amidst their jeering chorus. A foursome shoved her down and held her splayed—taking turns in vicious rape as others cheered them on. A sordid swarm of blood frenzy; then a chilling roar: “Flay the bitch!” And the sport turned murderous. Their victim who’d held mute till now shrieked in grievous torment—“Oh’yiiia! Yiiiaaa!—as they sliced off a breast. Then they pitched the grim trophy one to another, horseman playing catch. Her quivering screams grew shrill, inhuman, as the brutal knife continued.
Butcher Joe spurned the fun, having gained a greater trophy—possessed of its glory like the dark angel granted wings. He held the white robe aloft and roared with lusty cunning, calling for Nimrod:
“I have yer robe! Whar hides ye, Hunter! Yeah, Nimrod! Ye an’ yer Squaw!”
Two horsemen reined abruptly, eyes scanning the foreground; they followed the path traced through the dew-laden grass. Moneva had buried Little Red Bird deep in the leaves at the heart of a gooseberry thicket so sharp and tangled even small predators were unlikely to enter—laying her face up, leaving only room to breathe. At their approach, she shook the shi-shin rattle and pressed it to the little fist; she gazed into the frightened blue eyes with all a mother’s will and bade her child to hold silent; then closing the robe, she looked on her no more.
Moneva crouched low, moving quiet and fluid as a shadow through the briers and branches, her eyes glued to the horsemen halting at the edge of the thicket. To draw them off she broke cover and ran west towards the hill, her heart beating with the vain hope of Caspion descending like an angry Maiyun.
Alas, there was nothing but the empty distance and waiting grasses; and behind, pounding hooves bearing down to ravage flesh and soul. Alone, resolved, gaining her full stride, Broken Wing Bird showed her strength and ferocity, her ancient spirit and pride, would suffer none to enter her. She pulled the knife bequeathed by Caspion and prepared to plunge it to the hilt. “Na-vae!”—I die! She put the blade to her breast and fell…but she had died before and this time was quick and merciful compared to her rape. She welcomed the pain that seized her as the blade sheathed her heart, blood and milk mixing in the flow. And with a weak shudder she nestled, surrendering a faint cry to the earth. The Tasoom took wing—confused, altered, unleashed—and left the flesh abandoned to the prairie, insignificant as a blade of grass, a droplet of rain, the last kick and flutter of a dying bird.
Miles south, the flutter echoed in Caspion’s heart, sensing something wrong as he examined tracks where horsemen had recently forded the Buffalo. Somewhat fewer than twenty; shod horses, not Indian mounts; nor a troop of cavalry which always traveled in double columns—this haphazard grouping marked a more desperate trail as if they were rushed or pursued. They’d come from the southwest, passing shortly before dawn, the tracks only partly filled with water and horse droppings still warm at the center. His unease grew; the saber scar flared for the first time in months. Perhaps they’d headed north towards the upper Cimarron, his dearest hope. But beyond the opposite bank the trail turned east. An unguarded camp lay in their path.
“Ecouté bien à le raven,” a voice chided. “You fool!” he cursed himself; “You damned fool!” Then cried “Moneva!” gripped by anguish so sudden—a terror unlike any he’d known. He thrust his heels to Two-Jacks’ flanks and rode like another who’d once raced to save her—but again too slow, too frail and human to span distance and fatal time. His heart howled her name in despair and dread—Warrior, Husband, and Ho’ne—howling again and again: “Moneva! Moneva! Moneva…!”
But another horseman reached her first. Willy Bremin jumped down and rolled her with his boot, her body limp in death.
“Jes’ m
y luck!” he stomped in disgust. “Lookit here, Fuke,” he pointed to the embedded knife while turning to the other still mounted; “Kilt herself, the bitch. An’ purdy too.” Disappointed, for he’d missed out on the fat one; hadn’t touched her except to toss a breast. Fuke, so named for his favorite weapon, leaned forth and grinned, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth through his scraggly beard.
“Quit yer fussin,’ tadpole,” he chuckled, rolling his quid; “Ain’t cha e’er humped dead meat? Hell boy, have a go. Lak mammy says: ‘Giddit whall its warm!’” Then he leaned back and guffawed, slavering tobacco juice down his chin before he shot a stream arching to the ground.
Itchy pawed his groin, roused to the notion, tempted. But unbuckling his pants he quickly lost the urge; felt something at his back, like he was being hunted or sighted on, remembering how her man could shoot.
“Damn,” he thought aloud, “if he’s out there, he’ll shoot half ’fore we can turn.”
“Who…?” Fuke glanced over either shoulder, tugging his beard, fear contagious.
Krippit also peered through the trees; sensed a presence in the shadows, stirring from the distance. He’d heard a howl like a lone wolf beyond the hills, calling to him only; having gained the white robe, and so coveting, he’d gained a curse, the curse of knowing, the prescience of fear—certain of death now stalking him forever.
He ordered his men to mount up.
“Let’s ride!” he roared, warning: “The army trails us yet!” For they’d skirmished near Camp Supply the day before, losing two. Storming past, he cursed: “Damn ye, boy! Leave ’er be!”
Itchy was much relieved, glad to follow. But first, grabbing his knife, he meant to nab an ear—pausing, a bit reluctant to mar such beauty, he sliced it off with a shout: “Sioux-van-ear!” But Fuke would have one better; he jumped down, slit her dress, and fetched the inner pelt. Each giddy with his bloody prize, like yelping coyotes they rode to join the pack.
Cloaked in the white robe, Krippit glanced back and saw it flap like wings from his shoulders; and saw Time Face, his mute guardian, riding at his side. Krippit gripped his reins—vile, secure, and absolute—set to do the Lord’s bidding: To bear the sword, bring the fire, yea, and wear the mantle of glory, invested by its power. So he imagined. But instead of hunting Nimrod, he now feared the Mighty Hunter—saw him in every shadow and fled. As he rode, hooves followed, thundering in his heart.
Within the hour, Caspion, whipping Two-Jacks at a dead-run, came coursing through the trees. At the water’s edge he drew rein, seeing where Cupé had been struck. And following the blood-trail up the far bank, he met the full devastation. All he’d feared sketched before his eyes. A scene deathly still and quiet…wisps of smoke coiled near the ground from coals left smoldering in the heavy mist. He dismounted and slowly walked forth, trembling at what he witnessed. Cupé’s trunk lay propped against a dead limb, an ax sunk deep in the wood. A raven fed from the bloody stump of his neck while his head floated face-up in the black kettle, stewing in the tanning fluids—a wry mockery preserved in the eyes. Hatchet Paw lay nearby opened up like a carcass, her butchered flesh strewn about. Beyond the fallen lodges lay Stump, too stubborn to lead, dropped in his tracks by a bullet through the brain.
And further on, towards the base of the hill, he discerned her fallen form.
“No…,” he moaned, approaching; “Moneva…no.” The chill dampness of the day imbued his flesh, drained his blood, and removed all warmth—by grief stricken. A quickening drizzle fell on the sodden land. Sorrowful, not a breath of wind; all paused in witness as if summoned to grieve. The very grasses bent to her in mourning. Caspion stood viewing her grace and beauty—a cold beauty still proud in death, defiled by foul hand. And he had forsaken her, left her unguarded.
In self-loathing and grief he sank to his knees…covered her nakedness and cradled her head. Guilt would not grant him a tear; and seeing his knife buried in her breast, it named him an accomplice. Enraged, by its very sight condemned, he gripped the handle and jerked it free then clasped her hand in his and thrust the blade through both, deep into the earth, seeking self-mutilation as atonement in some old instinctual appeal for his blood to flow to hers and give her life. But what hideous life it would have been without a soul. Though the wound could not match his grief, its pain released his anguish. Jerking the blade from his hand, he cried out: “Moneva! Nameho!”—surrendering utterly like a stricken child, pleading for her while his lost soul thrashed within, raging like a wolf driven from its mate—fierce, defiant, and deadly.
With his next act he would have turned that rage on himself, used the blade to still his anguished heart had not another answered in sympathy. A tiny wail muffled by the robe and leaves—Hesta, so long silent and alone, recognized her father’s voice and echoed his cry. He dropped the knife and stood, cupped his maimed hand and stumbled towards the thicket, running now, searching through his tears…Hesta…Hesta! He knelt and dug through the leaves to find her. As their eyes met, she quieted. And seeing her alive, he shed tears of joy, gathered her in his arms and held her for a long, long time. Held the pure one to his heart; held Hesta, his daughter; cast his eyes to the distance and felt his blood return…his flesh warmed.
She lay quietly shaking the shi-shin rattle, content in the baby-board, snug in the robe while Caspion tended the bodies. He bundled each in lodge-skins and lashed them tight. He gave them a Cheyenne burial, using a rope and Two-Jacks to hoist each into the cottonwood where Hesta had learned to quiet—placing Moneva in the upper fork and on either limb below securing the remains of Hatchet Paw and Cupé. When finished, a gentle breeze rustled through the outer limbs; the budding leaves would soon sing their tranquil song and bid their Tasooms journey on in peace. He had no words; too numb for further grief. His only thought was to deliver Hesta and make her safe.
Then he would hunt the killers. With savage heart hunt them to the death.
XXXIV. Cold Trail
The Army’s initial close pursuit faded steadily through the night—like so often during the late war the day’s victory vanished in the evening mist before the blood that gained the ground had even soaked away. The previous afternoon, east of Camp Supply, Lieutenant Hastings, leading a routine patrol, had encountered a group of armed men herding horses north. Obvious they were Indian ponies and stolen. On his own initiative he promptly intervened, determined to force their return—frustrated by a recent episode in which Little Rode, a trusted Cheyenne peace chief and personal friend, had forty-three ponies stolen by the Martin Gang; the brazen theft witnessed by Agent Haworth himself, yet the Army did nothing. Muldarrin, though still at the post, had been superseded by General Brooke, a hidebound careerist who hewed to preferred policy. To all appeals—the Indians, the Agents, to Marshals Lefebrve and Talley—the General turned a deaf ear, refused point-blank to consider the matter. This failure to act in effect forced the Cheyenne to eventually choose war, which may have been his true intent.
Whatever the case, in the present instance, Lieutenant Hastings made his position bluntly clear: Return the horses or else! The thieves answered by turning their weapons on the herd as their Chieftain growled:
“Ye Injun lovin’ Yank! Ye’ll have ’em back dead!”
With that the slaughter commenced; amid the shot and smoke and screams of dying horses, a hot skirmish ensued. The outlaws, outgunned and outfought, turned tail, leaving two as they fled. The troopers, disciplined under fire, came through unscathed except for Lieutenant Hastings, badly wounded in the thigh. They applied a tourniquet and rushed him back; he was already unconsciousness when they brought him in.
Muldarrin, seeing his young officer near death and hearing their report, grew livid, his gray eyes smoldered to act, his faith broken for the last time. Heedless of command but certain of his duty, he mounted up and led them out; and the troopers were game to follow. Pressing hard through the night, often losing the trail due to the overcast sky, by dawn they’d fallen far behind. And while they now pur
sued with greater ease, it was past midday before they reached the ford where Caspion had knelt that morning. Men and horses nearly played out, but again Muldarrin urged them on, anxious to close ground. Then turning northeast, dread set in like the gathering rain—for he realized that Cupé and Caspion camped with their women along the upper Buffalo.
With evening coming on his fears were confirmed; Muldarrin soon witnessed the scene reported by his scout, Amos Chapman: “Dead ahead lies their camp…laid waste.” There they halted; the chase ending futile as the war, in grim silence while the living tallied the dead. What was it he saw mirrored there? His life? All its folly, shame, and sadness? His shattered faith and love mirrored by the trinity formed in the cottonwood, like it had awaited him. His heart fully certain, though his mind still questioned.
Amos passed up a crumpled letter found in the shambles of the camp—it was addressed to Luther. Muldarrin recognized the hand, and though most lines were badly smudged, he discerned an occasional word or phrase: “…a father now…know the blessing of…and Moneva amazes…have heard many tales…our daughter Hesta…will travel to the Rockies and summer…my promise…north in the Autumn, where we…”—then his eyes misted with the rain and he read no more, but folded the letter and tucked it in his tunic. He imagined a lone horseman crossing the plains, a soul in exile. He’d long regretted his rash judgment, his rash love. And now this. What horror had seized his beautiful friend? What transformation waited? What courage sustained? He raised his eyes once more to the cottonwood and blanched—felt like Judas gazing on Golgotha.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 37