by Judd Cole
Winslow slipped the grapeshot revolver from his sash. He let his horse walk closer until he was at point-blank range. Then he aimed at the back of the Cheyenne’s head.
“Brother, watch out!”
Winslow squeezed the trigger just as Little Horse’s lance knocked his arm askew. The grape-shot revolver discharged its 20-gauge shot load with a deafening roar.
A moment later the dragoon, who had dismounted to pick up the carbine he had dropped, was sitting on the ground in shock and pain, gazing at the bloody stump of his left leg. The bone protruded like a shattered tree branch.
The soldier had never met Winslow. He had seen nothing. He knew only that this man now staring at him, smoking weapon in hand, had just blown his leg to hell and gone.
“You scum-sucking sonofabitch!” he snarled. And just before he passed out from pain and blood loss, he lifted his carbine, locked it into his hip socket, and sent a slug thwapping into Winslow’s chest.
There was no time to rejoice in their victory at saving the house and driving off the attackers. Both Cheyennes made sure the flaming hay was in no danger of igniting buildings. Then they raced toward the high ground and the summer pasture, where the battle still raged. They were prepared to draw blood if necessary. But the shouts of encouragement from Hanchon’s wranglers told them the fight went well.
“This is what I have seen, brothers and fathers. I did not ride south to condemn this tall stranger. But these are the things I have seen. I know this is a serious charge. But I believe in my heart that it is also a true charge. Touch the Sky and Little Horse are secretly aiding the Bluecoats! They are attacking paleface settlers under secret orders from a little soldier chief!”
River of Winds finished his long report and fell silent. His words left a shocked stillness in the council lodge. None was more troubled than old Arrow Keeper. Had this report come from Swift Canoe, he would have known it was delivered with more than one tongue. Swift Canoe’s Wolverine Clan were known among the village as complainers who always shirked hard work and loved to stir up trouble.
But from River of Winds! Arrow Keeper trusted this brave’s word and his keen sense of fair play. He would never speak in a wolf bark against another Cheyenne.
“I spoke straight-arrow all along!” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling triumphantly. “He is not even a turncoat—he was a spy all along!”
The outburst of shouts from the younger warriors forced Arrow Keeper to fold his arms until it was silent.
“Brothers, hear your chief! I too am bothered by this word River of Winds brings. But still, much remains to be explained. If these two bucks are spies, then we must find out how this thing happened and how they have hurt us with our enemies. If they are innocent, we must give them opportunity to prove this thing.”
River of Winds was instructed to join Swift Canoe again, then track the two Cheyennes, never letting them out of sight. River of Winds and Swift Canoe, Arrow Keeper insisted, must learn as much as possible about this dangerous alliance with pony soldiers.
Arrow Keeper was deeply troubled, and his concern was plain to the others. But deep in his heart he still resisted believing what was now obvious to all: that Touch the Sky and Little Horse had not only deserted their tribe for good, but were selling it out for gold. Arrow Keeper was well aware of the white man’s ploy of creating “Indian attacks” to drum up war profits. Many Indians had already brought their tribes down for good with this treacherous service to the white profiteers.
The shaman was not surprised, after the council, to find Honey Eater anxiously waiting in front of his tipi.
“What was decided about Touch the Sky, Father?”
Honey Eater and everyone else in the tribe had already heard the charges against Touch the Sky and Little Horse—including the story about how he held a sun-haired paleface woman in his blanket and made love talk to her.
“Very little, daughter. The Headmen must learn more. These are very serious charges.”
“Do you believe them?”
Arrow Keeper looked into the girl’s agonized, hopeful eyes and felt a pang of remorse in his heart. “Honey Eater, I believe that River of Winds always speaks straight. I believe he saw what he tells us he saw. However, the meaning of what he has seen still eludes the tribe.”
“But what else can it mean, when a Cheyenne holds a pretty young paleface woman in his arms? He prefers a blue-eyes over a Cheyenne!”
Arrow Keeper was forced to maintain silence. How could he dare build up the girl’s expectations and risk ruining her chances for a good marriage? Time was running out for her. She would soon have to marry.
Reading all this in his troubled gaze, Honey Eater said, “Please tell me, Father, what do I do? Black Elk will wait no longer! Do I risk the anger of his clan again by sending the gift of horses back?”
Nothing in his medicine vision about Touch the Sky, Arrow Keeper reminded himself, predicted anything about a marriage to Honey Eater. All that was foretold was greatness for Touch the Sky as a war leader. Men who were marked for greatness were not always the best men to love.
Finally, his heart heavy, he said, “You must remember that you are a Cheyenne maiden. You must always do your duty, what is right for your tribe. Black Elk is a war leader who has been blooded for his tribe. He has many possessions, fine horses. True, he is perhaps too much tempered in the hard arts of warfare. But with the mellowing of age, he may also someday become a great peace chief. And he is respected by his people.”
Honey Eater nodded, though this was not what she wanted to hear. “Father,” she repeated desperately, “should I become Black Elk’s bride? Time has run out, he demands to know this day!”
But Arrow Keeper only shook his head, his face a mask of unreadable wrinkles.
“You must do your duty,” he repeated.
“But is duty more important than my love?”
Again he shook his head. “Words are no good now, little one. Make your decision. Just remember: We live on through the will of the tribe. And the will of the tribe calls for you to marry Black Elk.”
Chapter Sixteen
Today, thought Swift Canoe, the turncoat named Touch the Sky will finally die.
It had been four sleeps since the strange nighttime battle near the paleface lodge. While River of Winds made his report far to the north in Cheyenne country, Swift Canoe had watched the entire conflict unfold. The young Cheyenne had not, however, recognized the four Bluecoats without their soldier clothing. He assumed the clash was between white settlers only. And since Touch the Sky and Little Horse were still meeting with a young Bluecoat officer, clearly they were still the long knives’ dogs even if they did cleverly defeat the raiders.
Swift Canoe lay behind a tree on the long ridge overlooking the Hanchon spread. For four sleeps now he had watched his fellow Cheyennes as they, in turn, continued to prowl about the territory between the two mustang ranches. But it appeared that they were finally ready to leave. Both were preparing to mount their ponies below, Touch the Sky speaking with the paleface man and woman who lived in the lodge.
Where, wondered Swift Canoe, would they ride to? Surely they were not treacherous enough to return to Yellow Bear’s camp? Or was that part of the Bluecoat’s orders to them?
River of Winds was due back shortly with their orders from the councilors. If he was going to finally do it, Swift Canoe told himself, it must be soon—this day. And against two such capable fighters as those two, he would get only one arrow off before he would be forced to flee for his life.
The Cheyenne who killed such an enemy of the tribe would earn the respect of many blooded warriors. It would not bloody the Medicine Arrows to kill a turncoat like Touch the Sky.
One arrow.
Swift Canoe checked the condition of his buffalo-sinew bowstring, selected the most perfectly fletched and balanced arrow from his quiver. He would wait until the turncoats’ route was clear, then ride on ahead and find a good ambush point.
“I’m not sure how I
feel about you leaving,” Sarah Hanchon told her adopted Cheyenne son. “Part of me wants you right here like you used to be. The other part of me wants you away from here, where it’s safer.”
Touch the Sky nodded. He didn’t want to admit that he too felt a similar confusion about where he belonged. Last night, in a dream, Honey Eater and Kristen had both turned into eagles who ripped him in half fighting over him.
“Actually,” said John Hanchon, “it’s safer around here thanks to the boys. At least for a while anyway. Best time to stay on, if they’ve a mind to.”
The valley had been unnaturally quiet since the battle four days ago. The fight in the summer pasture had gone well for Riley and Hanchon. Most of Steele’s wranglers had lit out, and many hadn’t shown their faces in the valley since. With Winslow and several of his gun-throwers dead, the rest of the mercenaries had decided they had their bellyful of the Wyoming Territory.
But Touch the Sky had learned even better news through Tom Riley. Riley’s letter, including copies of Carlson’s falsified reports about Indian danger, had reached the territorial commander at Fort Laramie and drawn an instant response by special courier. Major Harding, red-faced at the reprimand he’d received from above, suddenly had a fire lit under him. He’d immediately complied with the order to form a special board of inquiry to look into the raids on the Hanchon spread.
Touch the Sky agreed with Riley—no charges were likely to be filed as a result of the inquiry. Steele had too much influence at the fort. But the simple knowledge that somebody was looking into it should give Steele pause to worry. More important, the irate territorial commander had insisted to Washington that a U.S. marshal and deputy be stationed at Bighorn Falls to handle civilian disputes. They were due to report for duty soon.
Seth Carlson, deemed grossly incompetent after filing the inaccurate reports, had already been demoted to second lieutenant and reassigned to an even more desolate no-man’s-land, the remote Army outpost called Fort Peck in the Montana Territory. Touch the Sky regretted not killing him. But at least he was nowhere near Kristen now.
To Little Horse, Touch the Sky translated Sarah’s offer to stay. To his surprise, Little Horse smiled. He spoke in Cheyenne, asking Touch the Sky to translate. Touch the Sky was still surprised when he turned to his parents and told them:
“My friend says to tell you, ‘My name is not War Eagle. It is Little Horse. Now I trust you to know it.’”
Sarah smiled at the smaller Cheyenne. Then, shyly, she pushed her son’s black locks back off his forehead and said, “Matthew? You’ve never told your father and me your Cheyenne name. We want to know it.”
For a moment he hesitated, self-conscious. He spoke the Cheyenne words and they repeated them several times.
“What does it mean?” asked Sarah.
“Touch the Sky,” he replied.
The Hanchons both smiled at the same time. “I like it,” said Sarah. “You certainly do measure up to it.”
John Hanchon had given the two youths the weapons he’d lent them, along with plenty of ammunition in buckskin pouches. Their legging sashes were filled with dried meat and fruit for the journey north to the upcountry of the Powder. Sarah had thrown in a generous supply of the biscuits Little Horse loved. Corey had said goodbye earlier, stopping by with Tom Riley. If only, thought Touch the Sky, he could have had one more meeting with Kristen to say goodbye.
It felt like a nail was lodged in his throat when he finally told his parents it was time to ride. Sarah smiled brightly, but crystal teardrops beaded up on her lashes.
“The first time you left,” she said, fighting to keep her voice under control, “you went out in the night and left us a note. I felt so empty and aching inside because I never got the chance to hug you goodbye. Now, I know you don’t feel comfortable, a big strong Cheyenne being hugged by his mama! But you just step over here and give me that hug, Matthew or Touch the Sky or whoever my fine son is these days!”
He smiled and did as she requested, picking her right up off the ground and twirling her around. The gesture surprised Little Horse. Thinking it must be a white custom upon leave-taking, he too picked Sarah up and twirled her. He looked even more confused when the other three suddenly laughed at him.
John Hanchon folded one arm around Matthew, one around Little Horse. “We going to see you two again around here?”
Sarah looked at him, waiting hopefully for the right answer.
He didn’t know what to say. He was a Cheyenne now, but making this journey might have cost him his place in the tribe. Arrow Keeper said a Cheyenne without a tribe was a dead man. But neither was it possible to make a life back here, where the white settlers refused to accept him.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. If I can, you bet you’ll see me again.”
It wasn’t the answer Sarah wanted, but it would have to do.
“Well, we plan on being here, son, thanks to you and Little Horse,” said John Hanchon. “You two have a place here anytime you need it, the white homesteaders be damned! Keep your powder dry, boys!”
As Touch the Sky was about to swing onto his dun, Sarah ran close and hugged him again. Then, unable to control her sudden sobs, she raced off toward the house. When Touch the Sky turned to say his final farewell to his father, he was surprised to see that the older man’s eyes were damp.
“We both love you, son,” he said gruffly. “Now get on out of here before I make a damn fool of myself,” he added. With a final wave of his thickly callused hand, he headed up toward the house to comfort his wife.
The two Cheyennes rode in silence for several minutes, pointing their mounts toward the northern rim of the valley. The elation of their recent victory had given way to the reality—they were riding back to an uncertain future.
Thinking these things, Touch the Sky glanced up toward the rimrock above them, scanned the thickly wooded slopes. Little Horse saw him and did the same. Both had been thinking the same thing since Abe Winslow claimed to have seen two Cheyennes who could not have been them: Whoever the council had sent to spy on them, they were good at their work. Were they perhaps two more of Black Elk’s well-trained warriors?
These two, thought Swift Canoe incredulously, were as brazen as magpies! It appeared that they were actually heading back toward the Cheyenne camp.
Sure of the route they would follow for a while now, he untethered his pony and raced ahead until he reached a good vantage point where the trail curved around a huge shoulder of rock strata. He hobbled his pony well back behind the protruding formation so he’d be ready to flee. Then, climbing the rock shelves like stairs, he made his way to the top of the shoulder.
Perfect. He could see the land for miles and miles from here, and the two riders winding their way slowly closer.
He lay on his belly on the warm rock. He slipped the selected arrow from his quiver, lined the notch up with his bowstring. Then he held it down at the ready, waiting patiently, his face as blank and impassive as the rock he lay on.
The two Cheyennes were about to draw abreast of a huge stratified rock shoulder when Little Horse suddenly said, “Brother! Someone approaches!”
They nudged their ponies off the trail and into the thickets, then dismounted. Touch the Sky unlashed the Sharps and made sure a primer cap and bullet were loaded.
Again, Touch the Sky heard nothing at first, another proof of Little Horse’s keen hearing. Then, faintly, he detected the lazy clip-clop of shod hooves. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and took up the slack, waiting.
A moment later Kristen rode around the bend on her swayback piebald.
“Wait here,” he told Little Horse, his heart swelling into his throat and making words difficult.
Kristen’s surprise, when he stepped out and caught the bridle of her horse, quickly turned to joy at seeing him.
“I was hoping to meet you! Corey told me you were leaving. Oh, Matthew, I just had to say goodbye!”
&nb
sp; He helped her dismount, his eyes unable to feast enough on her spun-gold masses of hair and flawless white skin.
“I knew you couldn’t come to my place, and I didn’t want to risk riling Pa by getting caught coming to your parents’ spread again. So I asked Corey which route you’d be likely to take.”
“How is your pa treating you?” said Matthew.
“Things are better. He’s been a little more humble since a bunch of his own hands quit on him after that raid. The idea of this U.S. marshal coming has got him worried. And Matthew? He knows I know. I confronted him with everything about what he tried to do to your mother and father. It’s shamed him enough that he wants to make peace with me.”
“But will he stay this way?”
Her pretty face was creased by a frown. Touch the Sky realized that her answer was the same one he had just given his mother.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Tentatively, she reached one finger out and touched the mass of burn scar on his bare, flat, tautly muscled stomach.
“Matthew? Do you love the woman you’re riding back to more than you love me?”
The question took him by surprise and left him without words. For a moment he recalled that dream again, Honey Eater and Kristen fighting over him, literally tearing him in two, a piece for each world. He opened his mouth to answer when she suddenly raised one hand to his lips.
“Shush! Never mind, I don’t want to know. Just remember this. I love you! I know it’s impossible and all wrong, but I love you! Matthew, I can’t predict Pa’s moods. Do you understand me? I don’t know how long I’m even going to be living here. If he throws me out, I’ll probably never see you again. I can’t stand that thought!”
She could no longer speak. Tears streaming down her face, she reached up on tiptoe and kissed his lips. Then, doing it so quickly he didn’t even have time to assist her, she mounted and rode back in the direction she’d come, pushing the piebald to a surprisingly lively pace.
