by Judd Cole
Then Little Horse shrugged.
“Brother, when have we not faced danger? We are Indians and we live like the buffalo, always hunted, killed for sport. Only, tell me this one thing. This paleface girl with hair like morning sunshine, I saw how you two looked at each other. Have you held her in your blanket and made love talk?”
Touch the Sky’s troubled face answered the question clearly enough.
“Brother,” said Little Horse sternly, “we are warriors and we have come to grease our enemy’s bones with war paint! That is our mission and we must hold our purpose close to our hearts. This golden-haired squaw, I sense danger if you let her into your thoughts. You are a Cheyenne, and Honey Eater waits for you back at Yellow Bear’s camp!”
“What did War Eagle say?” asked Sarah when Little Horse quit speaking.
Touch the Sky felt thoroughly miserable. But at least Little Horse’s impassive face and tone made the lie easy.
“He said that he’s never tasted anything so good as your cornbread!”
All through the day Honey Eater had listened to the hypnotic rhythm of chanting, to the rustling rattle of snake teeth in dried gourds.
He was slipping away, ravaged by the red-speckled cough, but Chief Yellow Bear was still alive. Honey Eater had fresh cause for worry: The only nourishment her father could hold down now was hot yarrow tea with wild bee honey. But he was still alive, and for this Honey Eater gave thanks to the sun and sky and the four directions of the wind.
She stepped past the flap of the tipi she shared with her father. The evening air felt cool and fresh after the thick smoke of the interior, where dogwood incense was kept burning day and night. The days were gradually growing warmer and longer. Soon they would enter The Moon When the Ponies Shed.
Today, as usual, she picked fresh columbine and pressed it between wet leaves. Then she returned to the tipi and placed it near her robes. In the morning she would braid her hair with it.
Despite the sad vigil for Yellow Bear, daily life in camp went on as always. The young men wrestled and ran foot and pony races, sometimes all night until dawn; the children threw stones at birds and staged mock battles; the women talked and cooked. In the still, quiet hours of darkness, the old grandmothers and new widows mourned their dead with sad songs and chants.
Things went on as usual, even though Touch the Sky had coolly ridden out of her life! Now she could still hear the harsh calls of willets and grebes and hawks, the softer warblings of orioles and thrushes and purple finches. But since he had left her alone in this terrible time, none of it was anything but noise.
Arrow Keeper had told her little about why Touch the Sky left. Whatever trouble called him away, could his former life be more important than his life now as a Cheyenne? Did he not realize how vulnerable she would be if Yellow Bear crossed over to the Land of Ghosts? Surely he knew the decree of tribal law, that no young woman could live on her own but only with a father, a brother, or a husband. She had no brother, and soon she would have no father. If Black Elk again sent her the gift of horses, how could she refuse?
These thoughts skittered around inside her head like frenzied rodents. Now, as she stoked the embers to life under the cooking tripod, she noticed several of the clan Headmen walking toward the council lodge. Other males, all warriors or elders, also drifted across camp toward the lodge. She knew they must be meeting in formal council—they wore their best ornamental clothing, decorated with porcupine quills, stones, feathers, hair from enemy scalps.
“Honey Eater.”
The sudden words startled her. She turned around to confront a fierce-eyed young warrior dressed in battle finery, complete with feathered war bonnet.
“I would speak with you before the council begins.”
“I always have ears for your words, Black Elk.”
“But do you? When I speak, do you truly place my words next to your heart? Or are they like pesky gnats, which bother you a moment until you slap them away from your ears and then forget them?”
Black Elk’s bonnet was full of the eagle feathers of bravery. There was a dead flap of leathery skin where one ear had been torn off in battle, then later sewn back onto his skull with buckskin thread.
“What does Black Elk mean by this odd question?”
“You play the fox well, little one! You know I speak of Touch the Sky. The entire tribe knows that you have declared your love for this stranger who rides among us reeking of the white man’s stink! But you must turn stone ears to his love talk. Even now, despite Arrow Keeper’s objections, the Headmen are meeting to discuss his and Little Horse’s desertion.”
“He has not deserted his tribe!” said Honey Eater. “He is a brave and strong warrior.”
“Would you tell this thing to me, who trained him? I will not speak in a wolf bark against him. He is brave and strong. With a handful of bucks like him, what battles I could win! He spoke brave love talk to you when the paleface dogs held you prisoner and tortured him in their camp. And yes, he has respectfully cut short his hair to mourn our dead. But a dog that walks on two legs is still a dog, not a Cheyenne.
“Bravery and strength are good things, but they are not enough. Looking like a Cheyenne is not enough. There is also loyalty to the tribe, duty, discipline. He was not raised a Cheyenne. In his heart he is white. This is why he so easily deserts us now to join them. In his heart he is still our enemy!”
The next moment Black Elk turned his back on her protests and headed toward the council lodge.
The lodge fell silent for a moment when Black Elk lifted the flap aside and stepped inside. This silence was a mark of respect for the young brave Yellow Bear had named as their battle chief.
Arrow Keeper sat in the center of the lodge, wrapped in his blanket. The voting Headmen filled nearly one half of the lodge. The younger warriors, who could speak but were not yet permitted to vote with the stones, occupied the other half.
Arrow Keeper, their acting peace chief, lit the common clay pipe and passed it on. After all who wished to had smoked, Arrow Keeper began the council.
“Brothers! The cold moons were harsh. Now what game can be found is lean and snow-starved. The meat is stringy, with no juice or tasty fat.
“Cheyennes, today these old hands carry no weapons. But I fought Utes beside Yellow Bear and buried my wife and children after the Pawnee raid at Wolf Creek. I have smoked the common pipe with you, and duty instructs me to speak only things that matter. So I say only this, that when game is short, tempers grow short. When there is hunger in the belly for meat, there is hunger in the spirit for blood! Do not punish Touch the Sky and Little Horse simply because of your hunger and bloodlust.”
“But Father!” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “You are brave and wise, but you speak in riddles. Think what they have done. Our chief is about to enter the Land of Ghosts. Even a hen will remain at the nest to fight for her chicks! Yet will these two ‘warriors’ fight for Cheyenne children?”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was a warrior now, one of the youngest in the tribe. He wore scalps dangling from his clout and practiced the fierce dignity and restraint he had learned from his older cousin, Black Elk.
Arrow Keeper folded his arms until the lodge had quieted. Now Black Elk rose.
“Fathers! Brothers! I do not question the manly courage of Little Horse or Touch the Sky. However, both are weak in judgment. And perhaps we were too hasty in presenting the blue feather to Firetop. Has he not abused our token of friendship? Has he not used his special place among us to entice away two of our best warriors to fight white men’s battles. True it is, he showed bravery in helping us fight the lice-eaters. But is it not also true that the Indian can never trust the paleface?”
“Our war chief speaks the straight word,” said Swift Canoe, who, as always, sat beside Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “I have heard much about Touch the Sky’s bravery after he was captured in the paleface camp. But did he not willfully disobey Black Elk’s orders, which led to his capture and the death of our b
rother, High Forehead?”
“These words ring clear,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “And who has actually seen most of the brave deeds Touch the Sky claims to have performed? Just because he fought the white sellers of strong water, this is no proof he is not a spy for the Bluecoats. The palefaces too war among themselves just as the red men do. I still believe he is a spy!”
Again old Arrow Keeper was forced to fold his arms to quiet the excited buzzing in the lodge. He longed to answer the young Cheyenne’s unjust accusations. Arrow Keeper and Honey Eater were the only witnesses when Touch the Sky killed the Pawnee leader War Thunder, saving Yellow Bear’s life. But they were both forced to remain silent—the rest of the tribe knew they favored the new arrival. Any support from them would only harden the others against him even more.
The medicine man sensed what was coming next. The younger warriors would demand a vote to permanently ostracize Touch the Sky, and perhaps even Little Horse, from the tribe. But a stroke of recent good fortune had suggested an alternative plan to Arrow Keeper: For the duration of the next moon, Chief Sun Dance of the Lakota Sioux had moved his clan circles just across the river from their Cheyenne cousins. This was only a temporary move while they hunted elk in the foothills of the Bighorns. But the presence of so many fierce Sioux warriors made attack from any Cheyenne enemies unlikely.
This meant that some braves could now be spared. Now, before Touch the Sky’s enemies could move to expel him forever, Arrow Keeper spoke up.
“Brothers! The wildcat fights, or it flees. It is time to either expose Touch the Sky for a spy or lay these charges behind him forever. I suggest a plan.
“Our number is now swollen by Lakotas. Therefore, let us send two capable young bucks to report on Touch the Sky’s activities. If he is a spy, surely we can find this thing out now. If so, his enemies may kill him as tribal law decrees! If not, his enemies must cease forever to speak in a wolf bark toward him.”
Arrow Keeper’s plan was practical, yet just, and met with strong voice approval. Both Swift Canoe and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling volunteered to go. But Arrow Keeper stubbornly shook his head. He reminded the others that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had walked between Touch the Sky and the fire. And Swift Canoe still blamed the death of his brother on Touch the Sky.
To avoid rebellion from the young warriors, Arrow Keeper knew at least one of Touch the Sky’s enemies would have to go. But he insisted that the other must be someone neutral toward Touch the Sky. Finally it was decided that River of Winds, whose medicine bundle was the rattlesnake, would accompany Swift Canoe.
Now, thought Arrow Keeper, I have done my best. The rest was up to Maiyun, the Supernatural. Arrow Keeper still believed in the powerful vision at sacred Medicine Lake, which foretold a warrior’s glory for Touch the Sky.
But it was a terrible place Touch the Sky was now trapped in, caught between the sap and the bark. Had he cut all ties to the white man only to be savagely murdered by the red man?
Chapter Six
Two sleeps after the Cheyenne council voted to send spies to the south, John Hanchon showed Touch the Sky and Little Horse the lay of his mustang spread.
Before they left, Wade McKenna had been called up to the house. The tough old Irish foreman had lived in the territory for ten years. He recognized the tall, broad-shouldered redskin buck as the quiet kid who used to work for his adopted white parents at Hanchon’s mercantile. McKenna never even batted an eye when he was asked to pass the word to all the hands: If you come across Cheyenne Indians on or near Hanchon land, don’t pull down on them. They’re flying our colors.
It was well after sunset, but a full moon painted the grass silver and made riding easy. The three stayed abreast except when forced to ride single file through narrow defiles. They were close enough to the river to hear the steady chuckle of the current, made more lively by spring runoff. Before them, the lush bottomland rose gradually into gentle hills dotted with stands of juniper and scrub pine.
John Hanchon reined in his roan cutting horse. He sat his saddle, gazing out toward the vast summer pasture.
“So help me Hannah, son, it’s just now sinking in. First the store, now this place. A man doesn’t bust his hump just for the love of sweat. I was hoping to put by against the future, mainly for your ma’s sake after I’m gone. Now I see how close I am to losing everything. I’ve worked until I’m mule-tired, but I still go to bed scared every night. Scared your ma will be taking in washing after I’m planted.”
Hanchon shook off his pensive mood and became all business.
“This is where the summer pasture starts,” he said, pointing with a vast sweep of his arm. “Most of the mustangs are grazing out of sight behind the line shack on top that shoulder. See it? You could maybe sleep there except that Woody Monroe, the line rider, isn’t too partial to Indians. You sure you won’t stay up at the house with us?”
Touch the Sky shook his head. The rest of the hands were not all as likely as Wade to accept the presence of Indians so close to the bunkhouse. And no point in mentioning that Little Horse would never sleep in any paleface lodge.
“If word gets out,” he said, “that Cheyennes are anywhere near the house, they’ll be sure to burn it to the ground this time. From up here we can watch the horses and the approaches to the house.”
There was no denying this. Hanchon nodded. “Well, since that last raid I got a guard set up for the yard and main corrals. We’ll be safe enough. But if you two got your minds set on mixing into this, you’ll need rifles. Ride back to the house with me and I’ll loan you a couple.”
Later, Touch the Sky thought, perhaps he would tell his father what happened to the rifle he took when he first left Bighorn Falls a year ago—how it had been given to Wolf Who Hunts Smiling when the intruder named Matthew Hanchon was declared a spy.
“I wonder,” said Hanchon, mostly to himself as he glanced toward the dark line shack again, “why Woody hasn’t lit his lamp and stove yet? Prob’ly still grouping the herd for the night. Sometimes they’ll scatter to hell ’n’ gone up into the high country.”
They held their horses to a long trot and quickly returned to the house. Hanchon waited until Sarah left to tend to the wounded man staying in the lean-to bedroom built off the rear of the house. Then he unlocked a sturdy oak gun cabinet in the front parlor.
“I kept these when the mercantile went bust,” he said. “Take your pick. Wade will set you up with powder and ball and percussion caps. You can fire them tomorrow when it’s light, get your wind and elevation.”
Touch the Sky hefted a percussion-action Sharps, then a .44-caliber North and Savage revolving-cylinder rifle.
“The trigger guard is combined with the lever,” explained Hanchon. “When you move it, you revolve the cylinder and cock the hammer.”
Touch the Sky liked the balance of the Sharps better. Little Horse owned a scattergun, acquired when he defended himself against the miner Enis McGillycuddy. But the tribe had no skins to trade for shells and ammunition, and he had left it behind. Now he chose a four-barrel flintlock shotgun. The barrels, each equipped with its own pan and frizzen, were rotated by hand. Little Horse smiled at the sharp, precise clicks as each barrel snapped into place.
“Tell your friend,” said Hanchon to his son, “that a man could toss a biscuit farther than that piece shoots. But close up, one shot will strip the clothes off three men standing shoulder to shoulder.”
As the two Cheyennes rode back out through the moonlit yard, the hired hand riding sentry by the horse-breaking pen stared at them as if they were a rare circus act. The warriors proudly ignored him.
“You boys want to buy a saddle?” the hand called out behind them. “Sell it to you heap cheap. Then you can ride in style without gettin’ blisters on your sitter.”
“Brother,” said Little Horse after Touch the Sky had translated the hand’s remark, “look at this thing.”
They halted at one corner of the horse-breaking pen and Little Horse pointed inside. Touc
h the Sky spotted a small white mustang. Its muscular flanks were bloody from being viciously roweled, its eyes wild from a day of being choked to break it to the harness.
“Why,” said Little Horse, “must the white man break a horse’s spirit when he trains it? The red man cannot understand this. Because we do not break their spirit, our ponies are superior in battle. I have seen our elders lead a vicious horse miles away to deep sand, where it cannot buck its rider, rather than beat the animal into submission.”
“It is as Arrow Keeper told me,” said Touch the Sky. “I saw it myself growing up among them. It is not the paleface way to respect nature. They must always defeat her and her creatures, just as they must always defeat each other. See how this man Steele works to destroy my father?”
As the two Cheyennes pointed their mounts toward the summer graze, Touch the Sky again felt John Hanchon’s words gnawing at him like a chancre: I’ve worked until I’m mule-tired, but I still go to bed scared every night.
They made camp just beneath a thickly forested ridge overlooking the summer pasture and the outlying line shack. They chose a thick stand of wind-twisted juniper which formed a windbreak near a cold seep spring. This site would permit a small fire and provide a natural bulwark against attack if they were surprised.
Then, while Little Horse slipped off into the forest to set a few snares for rabbits, Touch the Sky gathered wood. He removed a piece of flint from his legging sash and struck fire from it with his knife. He made the campfire Indian style by burning the logs from the ends, not the middle, to avoid wasting wood.
The location of the Grandmother Star to the north told them night was well advanced by the time they had tethered their ponies and let the fire burn down for the night. By the flickering light of the dying flames, Little Horse sharpened his knife against a flat stone. Touch the Sky used a bone awl and split-sinew thread to mend his extra moccasins. The sinew was a little tough at first, but he softened it in his mouth with saliva.
