by Judd Cole
True, the Lakotas were here only temporarily, until their hunt began. But such reassurance was welcome now, with her father fighting for each breath. The loss of any member of the tribe brought bad medicine, of course. But a chief’s passing left a tribe at its most vulnerable.
As she crossed the camp, she saw some of the old grandmothers gathering with their willow-stem baskets. They were going out this morning to gather acorns and wild peas.
She kept her eyes downcast, but she was aware that Black Elk was already awake and stirring. He sat before his tipi, plaiting a bridle out of rawhide and horsehair.
Though he too avoided glancing in her direction, she knew he saw her. And she could not help wondering: Is that new bridle for one of the horses he plans to offer as the bride-price for my love?
She lifted the flap of her tipi and saw Arrow Keeper sitting cross-legged beside her father’s robes.
“Come in, little daughter,” he said. “I dismissed the grandmother so that we might talk.”
“I always place your words close to my heart.”
“Yes, you do. And therefore I always select them carefully. Come, little Honey Eater—come look at your father.”
She did. Little had changed since she left to bathe. His craggy, nut-brown face was emaciated, the flesh drawn knuckle-tight on the prominent cheekbones. His silver-white hair lay fanned out like a mane. It reminded her of the days when he wore a magnificent crow-feather war bonnet and led braves into battle shouting the war cry.
“Look at him, daughter, and remember him well. Soon, very soon now, he makes his final journey.”
Arrow Keeper made the cut-off sign.
“You must be strong, little one. You have suffered terribly and will suffer more. But you must not hold this bitterness in your heart toward Touch the Sky. He has not deserted you or his tribe.”
“Father, I hear your words, but how can they be true? Is he here now? Did he not ride out before the Lakota made their camp near ours?”
“He did, daughter. But love fought with duty in his heart, and he did not make his decision lightly. He rode into great danger, faces danger at this moment, to help the only mother and father he has known.
“Honey Eater, are you a Cheyenne maiden? Or are you like the cold Comanches below the Platte, who scorn clan loyalties and leave their old parents to starve in the short white days?”
Tears filmed her eyes, one lone crystal drop dripping from a lash. “You are right, Father. It is good that Touch the Sky loves his white parents enough to fight for them. But I am afraid. Afraid for him, and afraid for myself.”
She didn’t need to say more. It would be unseemly to speak of such things now, over the dying chief. But Honey Eater was hinting about the tribal law which declared that a marriageable maiden must live with either her father, her brother, or her husband.
Arrow Keeper nodded, his seamed face troubled. It was true that he now believed firmly in the medicine vision which had foretold Touch the Sky’s greatness. But nothing in that vision told him that Touch the Sky and Honey Eater, despite their powerful love, would eventually celebrate the squaw-taking ceremony. Black Elk was a fierce warrior, older than Touch the Sky and far richer in the spoils of battle. He was also the tribe’s war chief.
“I understand your fear, daughter,” Arrow Keeper finally said. “But you must be prepared to do your duty. You cannot defy the will of the tribe. A chief’s daughter has a special obligation.”
She was about to reply when old Yellow Bear abruptly sat up, eyes wide open and blazing, and called her name!
The shock of it froze both Honey Eater and Arrow Keeper. The chief, clearly in a trance though his eyes were wide open, stared only at his daughter. He seemed unaware of Arrow Keeper’s presence.
“Honey Eater,” said his gravelly, tired voice, “the tall young stranger is meant to be a chief. But his path will be hard and his enemies many. Love him, my little daughter, but hold these words close to your heart.
“Happiness is a short, warm moment, and suffering is a long, cold night. The red nations have tasted their greatest glory. From now on the red man runs from death alongside his brother the buffalo. This tall young stranger will be the last of the great Cheyenne war chiefs. Behind him the Shaiyena people will raise their battle cry in one last, great victory.
“I love you, Honey Eater. You have always been the soul of this old warrior’s medicine bag. Now I go to join your mother. Do not weep for me, daughter. Bring children into this world, and sing to them about their grandfather and the old ways.”
Yellow Bear collapsed, sucked in a long, rattling breath, then sang the death song in a weak but clear voice:
Nothing lives long,
Only the earth and the mountains.
The next moment the chief died, his face weary but at peace.
Despite his request, Honey Eater burst into sobs, a knife point of grief twisting deep inside her.
Arrow Keeper still sat motionless, profoundly moved. Hovering near death, Yellow Bear too had experienced the vision of Touch the Sky’s greatness. But now Honey Eater’s father was gone, and Touch the Sky had few in the tribe to speak up for him. His present battle with the palefaces was not his only problem. If the hapless youth did not return soon, he would lose the happiness of his life to Black Elk.
And even if he did return in time, Black Elk would never surrender her without a fight to the death.
But for now ancient custom took over. Arrow Keeper stepped outside and sent a young boy running to fetch the camp crier. His face solemn at the news of Yellow Bear’s death, the brave swung onto his pony. He raced up and down the camp, crying at the top of his lungs:
“Our chief has crossed over! Our chief has crossed over!”
The keening wail of the mourners soon filled the camp. Downriver, the overheard cry was likewise being spread by the Lakotas, for whom this was also a terrible and solemn occasion. But Honey Eater dried her eyes and touched her father’s dead face in a gesture of farewell.
Now the call of tribal duty was strong in her. There would be many things to do. Of course, at a time like this, it was usual for one of the honored grandmothers to prepare a chief for his final journey. But now she must take charge and show she was strong—was she not the proud daughter of a great chief?
His body must be washed and dressed, and he would need new moccasins for his long journey to the Land of Ghosts. She hurried outside, knowing she must greet the mourners as they visited their dead chief.
Black Elk was among the first who were heading toward the tipi. Hurry, Touch the Sky, she thought. Hurry! I am alone now!
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was a warrior now. Despite his youth, he was entrusted with the important task of training the young bucks in the arts of Cheyenne warfare.
Nonetheless, a certain story had made the rounds at Yellow Bear’s camp. It was well known that, at the very moment they were both needed to protect their war chief from white bullets, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Touch the Sky had instead fought each other for the honor of the first kill. None of the bucks was foolish enough to mention this in front of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. But his ears, like his furtive eyes, missed nothing—he had heard them speak of this thing, scorn in their voices.
Now, as he led a party of six young bucks on a hunting trip near the Little Bighorn River, his mind raced for ways to unite the warriors in training behind him. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling admired his cousin Black Elk greatly. But Black Elk’s heart was too soft and womanly toward this white man’s dog who dared take the Cheyenne name Touch the Sky. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had watched the Bluecoats turn his own father into raw, shredded meat when his body absorbed the full impact of a canister shell. Black Elk was indeed strong and brave. But his head and heart were soft toward the white dogs who must be driven from the red man’s land!
They were hunting with bows only. Only now was the tribe starting to accumulate new beaver pelts for trade. The hunters and warriors were without ammunition and gun patches and black p
owder. So Wolf Who Hunts Smiling ordered his subordinates to remain silent and downwind when they spotted a black bear ahead beside the game trail. Arrows would only enrage it for the kill. They let it roll aside a log to get at the beetles beneath it before they rode on.
Good meat was scarce and the racks back at Yellow Bear’s camp almost empty. There were some stringy elk in the foothills, and the Arapahoes reported small buffalo herds between the Black Hills and the Niobrara River. But most of the big herds were running well to the north, far north of the Marias River. Already they sensed that the old runs to the south had become trails of senseless slaughter, thanks to the white men and their .53-caliber buffalo balls.
“Little brothers!” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling when they stopped to water their ponies. “The tribe needs meat. Keep your eyes sharp for a fat mule deer or antelope! He who sinks first arrow eats the liver!”
That night they camped in a cedar brake near the Little Bighorn. All day long Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had been plagued by thoughts of Touch the Sky. Every day longer that he was alive added fresh humiliation and torment to the shame Wolf Who Hunts Smiling already felt. He had vowed to kill this capable young warrior when Touch the Sky was still untrained in the killing ways. Now his boast was proving difficult to carry out.
“Cheyenne bucks,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling while the embers still glowed bright, “there is nothing more dangerous to a tribe than an Indian turncoat!
“You know already that River of Winds and Swift Canoe have been sent into long-knife territory. They have gone for the purpose of finally proving that Touch the Sky is a double-tongued spy. Perhaps Little Horse too plays the fox with his own people. More than one red man has killed a brother in his sleep for white man’s gold or strong water.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling paused, savoring the taste of power over these young bucks who would become the tribe’s future warriors. He must be careful. Though their lives were remote from those of Yellow Bear, Arrow Keeper, and the other elders with sixty and more winters behind them, they respected young warriors like Black Elk, their war chief.
“Little brothers, I do not speak in a wolf bark against any of the Headmen. But when you ask among yourselves why has this dangerous spy been permitted to live among us, look to the councilors and your medicine man and your chief. This thing has not happened because they do not love their tribe. It is because they are soft and sentimental with old age, like old women who recall their dead children and openly weep.
“A warrior must be a tree covered with hard bark! Do you not observe how the red men live who lie down like dogs for the long knives? The paleface is our sworn enemy, and we must scatter his bones across the plains and prairies, throughout the mountains and the valleys! We can trust no one who would make medicine with the white men, no one who would desert his red tribe and ride to fight battles for those who take our land and kill our people! A Cheyenne cannot place anything before his duty to his tribe. I tell you now this Touch the Sky is not one of us, and even now he is lending strength to our enemies!”
Chapter Ten
Two sleeps passed without trouble after the horse-scattering incident. While their sister the sun made her journey through the sky, Touch the Sky and Little Horse moved with ease around the perimeter of the Hanchon spread. Several times they spotted Steele’s riders on Hanchon land, apparently checking on the location of the mustang herds. The two Cheyennes stuck to the trees and thickets, made quick time through the many cutbanks and coulees. Their experience in concealment served them well now.
When their uncle the moon owned the sky, they built a small cedar and willow fire, smothering it frequently to produce smoke for scenting their clothing and moccasins. Winds changed unpredictably near the river, and mustangs unused to the smell of Indians might well stampede when they didn’t want them to, giving them away.
Under cover of darkness they also visited the house. Sarah Hanchon insisted on serving them hot food, and to Touch the Sky’s astonishment Little Horse devoured everything with intense pleasure. Once, when she heaped a third helping of biscuits and honey on Little Horse’s plate, Touch the Sky saw his friend briefly glance at Sarah Hanchon and meet her eyes with respectful gratitude. Around John Hanchon too Little Horse was at ease. Only when Wade McKenna was present did Little Horse withdraw into himself and cast his eyes down at one unvarying spot on the floor.
“All the mustangs you two scattered are back in the summer meadow,” said John Hanchon. He was cleaning the Henry, and it was broken open before him on the oilcloth-covered deal table in the kitchen. “They never left our land, so it was no trouble pointing them. Woody won’t be on his feet for days yet, and it’s no good to me when he is because he quit. He’s the second one in as many days. Hell, the next man that demands his wages in full will have to take it in hay and grass.”
Despite the forced jocularity of his remark, Hanchon showed his concern in the deepening network of lines around his eyes and mouth. He was now left with only five wranglers and Wade McKenna. Not only was defending his property a problem—soon he might not even be able to work it.
Luckily he had recently come into some hard cash providing thirty saddle-broke horses for a keel-boat company, and they needed thirty more again in a month. Still, he was unable to seek new business so long as he was tied up in fighting for his very survival.
Touch the Sky read the worry in his parents’ faces, and again felt hatred for Steele and every other greedy white man who thought the green earth and all her creatures belonged to them to buy and sell. Thinking of the sentry, he asked his mother if she’d heard any more from Kristen Steele. But Sarah only bit her lower lip and frowned, answering that she’d heard nothing. She was worried about the same question that troubled Touch the Sky: Did Hiram know she’d come out here again against his orders?
On that second night, at Sarah’s insistence, the two Cheyennes filled their legging sashes with cold biscuits and dried fruit and jerked beef. Early the next morning, while Little Horse went to check on their ponies, Touch the Sky went upridge and into the trees. He followed the deer run until he reached the lightning-split cottonwood. He had checked it every morning since he and Riley agreed to use it for messages.
This time, when his hand groped deep into the charred opening, his fingers encountered a folded scrap of paper.
Move your camp out of this area, Riley had written. Carlson due through this area soon searching for you. Suggest you camp closer to Steele’s property. But keep checking this spot for messages.
They took the Bluecoat’s advice. That night, aided by a moonless, cloudy sky, they rode due west until they reached a hogback ridge which bordered Steele’s spread. From there they could keep an eye on his riders yet be within a short ride of the Hanchon property.
They camped well below the steep crest of the hogback, selecting a thickly wooded hollow. They built a crude brush lean-to for protection from rain. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much forage available for the ponies, and it was necessary to occasionally move them about to new patches of graze, risking exposure from the main yard below.
Despite all the precaution of this move, however, the two Cheyennes very nearly rode square into death.
It was the second day after their move to the new camp. Avoiding the trail and riding high along the ridge, Touch the Sky and Little Horse rode back to their old campsite to check for messages in the cottonwood. The fork was empty. They had just swung onto their ponies and pointed them back toward Steele’s property when they saw a Bluecoat pony squad advancing toward their position from below the ridge.
The arrogant Seth Carlson led them! Touch the Sky realized this was the patrol Riley had warned them about—the patrol sent to search them out like holed-up rats.
“Brother!” said Touch the Sky. “It is useless to try outrunning the pony soldiers. The trees on this ridge are our only cover, but they grow too close together for hard, fast riding.”
Little Horse nodded. “And they would hear the sounds of hard r
iding. We must take cover.”
Concealing their ponies presented the immediate problem. By now the Bluecoats were almost within hailing distance of the tree line. At a command from Carlson they formed up at close intervals, only a few yards between each trooper.
“Brother,” said Little Horse, “this is a search party, not just a patrol riding through. These palefaces mean to turn over every leaf!”
Touch the Sky’s mouth was a grim, determined slit. He nodded.
“We must hide well or be prepared to sing the death song,” he said. “Quickly, strip the bridle and blanket from your pony! We must turn her loose on the far side of the trees. If the soldiers spot her, we can only hope they do not recognize her. Perhaps they will mistake her for a stray mustang from one of the spreads.”
Little Horse stripped the powerful little chestnut. They hoped the Bluecoats would not ride close enough to spot the handprint he had made with claybank war paint on the pony’s left front forequarter, the Cheyenne way of marking a pony’s owner.
Little Horse led the chestnut further up the ridge and turned her loose to graze on the opposite side of the tree line. Touch the Sky knew this ruse was too risky for his own dun. Carlson had gotten too long and close a look at her when he charged Touch the Sky. But this pony had been especially trained by Arrow Keeper.
Quickly, Touch the Sky led her to a patch of open ground which appeared worthless for hiding. He hoped the patrol would bypass it in favor of denser undergrowth.
Touch the Sky made a snorting noise like a horse drinking. Immediately, the dun lay down flat on her side, head down.
The Bluecoat patrol was only about thirty yards from the tree line, and closing steadily, by the time Touch the Sky and Little Horse finished covering the dun with fallen leaves and branches. From a short distance off there appeared to be only a small hummock rising from the ridge.
