Wind River

by Charles G. West

  After they had eaten, Little Wolf and Spotted Pony escorted Morning Sky to the tipi of her uncle, the brother of her father, Red Shirt. There she was welcomed even though it meant one more mouth to feed and food was not plentiful this time of year. Little Wolf bade her goodbye, not noticing the look of pain in her eyes as she watched him return to his father’s campfire.

  Someday, she promised herself, I will be your wife. Little Wolf, for his part, had already put the girl out of his mind.

  * * *

  Little Wolf sat down to talk to his father. He had an uneasy feeling about the camp. It was a sizable encampment, several hundred Cheyenne as well as quite a few Arapaho, all under the guidance of Black Kettle. They were camped at the bend of Sand Creek, just north of the fort. Was it safe to be so close to an enemy that had just recently destroyed two winter Cheyenne camps, perhaps even more? It did not seem like a typical Cheyenne village. It was more like a prison compound. There were no walls or fences around them but the men appeared subdued, almost docile. There were no hunters galloping through the village on their way to or from the hunt. And certainly there were no signs of raiding parties. In fact, it appeared to Little Wolf that the men of the village were doing little more than sitting around, keeping warm inside their tipis. He didn’t like the look of it.

  Spotted Pony tried to explain the feeling of malaise that seemed to permeate the village. “The white chiefs have said they will no longer tolerate the refusal of the Cheyenne to return to the reservation. You know that the people vowed to resist the soldiers at first but the soldiers are too many and have too many guns. Black Kettle has talked with the white chief at the fort about striking a peace between the soldiers and our people. He has promised that our young men will not raid the white squatters anymore if the soldiers will cease their attacks on our villages. That is why our men sit in their tipis.”

  “But what about food?” Little Wolf asked. “I don’t see any hunting parties.”

  “The white soldier chief has sent some food and has promised to send more if we keep our braves in camp. Black Kettle thinks the man speaks the truth. He has invited us to camp here, near the fort, while our chiefs talk of peace together. We see the army patrols leave the fort every day but they offer no threat to us, leaving us in peace. Black Kettle will negotiate a treaty for us to return to our hunting grounds.”

  Little Wolf found no reassurance in his father’s words. He could not shake the feeling that he had walked into a prison camp.

  “Father,” he pleaded, “let us leave this place. You and I and Buffalo Woman, we can go back to the mountains. This is not the way of the Arapaho. Black Kettle is Cheyenne. If the Cheyenne want to lie around before the white man’s fort like a lazy dog lies in front of the fire, then so be it. But we are Arapaho; let us go into the mountains and make our winter camp as we always have. There are plenty of antelope and elk there and the heavy snows have not fallen yet. There is still time to prepare for the winter.”

  Spotted Pony hesitated. He listened to the impassioned plea of his son and considered the wisdom in his proposition. For even though he felt secure in the judgment of Black Kettle, he could not honestly say that he had not felt some qualms about the tribe’s present situation. Black Kettle was chief but Spotted Pony was a man who could think for himself and he had questioned the wisdom in trusting the soldiers to grant the people their own private hunting ground, free from interference. It would be good to do as Little Wolf suggested and go far up into the mountains, away from the soldiers. Still he hesitated for he had always been loyal to his chief and it was not an easy thing to do, for a man to leave his village.

  “There is wisdom in your words, my young warrior. I will consider what you propose. I’ll think on it for a while and then I will decide.”

  Little Wolf felt relieved at once. He knew if Spotted Pony had rejected the idea, he would have said so immediately. He also knew that Spotted Pony would not immediately agree to his suggestion to leave the camp, even though he accepted the idea. He would have to think on it for a period of time before making his final decision. That was his way. They would leave this place. Little Wolf was certain of that. If he had known of the messenger on his way to Major Scott Anthony, the commander of the small garrison at Fort Lyons, from Colonel John M. Chivington, in command of twelve hundred Colorado volunteers, he would have left the village at Sand Creek that very afternoon.

  Later that day, a member of the tribe’s Society of the Dog came to Spotted Pony’s tipi with a message from Black Kettle. The chief had heard that Spotted Pony’s son had arrived and he asked if Little Wolf would come to the council lodge to talk with him. Little Wolf, of course, responded immediately. It was not a common thing, to be summoned by the chief. True, he had spoken briefly to the chief on several occasions while the whole tribe was gathered during the summer hunt. But it was never more than a polite greeting. Black Kettle’s messenger gave no hint as to the reason for the interview. Little Wolf could only wonder why the chief wanted council with a boy of sixteen years. He had told Spotted Pony about the army scout he had killed with his war club at Red Shirt’s village. This was a big thing to his people. To kill an enemy at close range, hand to hand, was strong medicine indeed and Spotted Pony had visibly swelled with pride when told of it. Maybe Spotted Pony had sent the chief word of his son’s accomplishment and the chief simply wanted to congratulate him. This was not the case, however, as Spotted Pony had sent no word of his bravery. His intention, he said was to dance and sing of it at the council lodge when the elders met that night. The thought of his accomplishment being sung before the elders buoyed his spirits to the point of forgetting the general disarray of the village and the urgency he had felt earlier about leaving. He was already building a reputation that was quite impressive for a grown man and even more so for a boy his age.

  The council lodge was located, as custom decreed, in the center of the village. It was larger than the other tipis, the entrance facing the east, toward the rising sun. The buffalo skins which made up the outside walls of the tipi were painted with wide alternating bands of red and black. Little Wolf had never been inside the council tipi. This summons was tantamount to recognition as an adult. He glanced briefly at his father before raising the entrance flap and could not help but notice the look of pride on Spotted Pony’s face as he stooped to precede his son into the lodge.

  “Ah, Little Wolf,” the old chief greeted them as they passed through the entrance. He was seated on a woven mat close to the fire. To Little Wolf, Black Kettle seemed to have aged perceptibly since the summer hunt, the raids of the winter having obviously taken their toll on the old man. At one time he might have been perceived as a war chief but now, with the ever increasing numbers of whites and the firepower of their many rifles, his main concern was peace for his people. Little Wolf could not help but feel a sense of compassion for him as he motioned for them to sit beside him. Since his adoption as a child, Little Wolf had always thought the chief was of almost superhuman stature, the mighty leader of the tribe. Now he more nearly resembled a worried old man, concerned for the future of his people. Little Wolf was not sure what had changed his image of the chief. Was it due to the fact that he was no longer a child and saw him as he really was? Or had the recent troubled times torn the man down to this present state?

  “Old friend,” the chief said to Spotted Pony, “this son of yours is no longer a boy.”

  Spotted Pony grinned broadly. “This is true. He is already a head taller than I. He has taken the power of the bear and now he has killed an enemy in hand to hand combat.”

  Black Kettle’s eyes lit up at this. He, of course, knew of the story of Little Wolf and the bear when Spotted Pony first found the boy. This was general knowledge among the people. But the killing of an enemy obviously impressed him. He pressed Little Wolf for details. Little Wolf recounted the encounter at Red Shirt’s camp, modestly admitting that he had struck the army scout from behind. Black Kettle insisted that he should not belittl
e his accomplishment. For a boy of his age to inflict a mortal wound on an enemy was big medicine indeed. And the fact that it was done to save the life of a brother made it even more commendable. Little Wolf was embarrassed by the crowing and boasting his father did over an action Little Wolf did simply as a reflex. He had lived long enough with the Cheyennes to know that it was an honorable thing to boast about one’s accomplishments in battle. Even so, he was not comfortable with the idea of spouting off about how brave he was. He was glad when the subject was changed.

  Black Kettle began, “Little Wolf, I have heard many good things about you.” He glanced at Spotted Pony as he spoke. “When I was told that your father had found a white boy and took him to his tipi, I was happy for him and Buffalo Woman for they could make no seed of their own. But I had little hope for the union. I have seen other white children adopted by the Cheyenne and the Lakota. It never seemed to work out. They would run away, back to the whites, or they would be sold or traded. And, in the end, they were still white. But you have become one of us. No man in the tribe is against you. You brought with you the medicine of the bear and it has made you strong. You are truly Spotted Pony’s son. Because you bring honor to your father’s tipi, and to our tribe, I know I can trust you to help me.”

  Little Wolf was beside himself with excitement. He was afraid he was literally glowing from the praise just heaped upon him by the chief and he was trying hard not to show it. It didn’t help to glance at Spotted Pony for he was fairly beaming with pride. So he kept his eyes focused on the flames of the fire as he said humbly, “I would be honored to help my chief in any way I can.”

  Black Kettle continued, “I have been negotiating with the soldier chiefs for the peaceful return of our people to our rightful hunting ground. The soldier chief Anthony has told me that the soldiers will not bother our village here but he insists that we must leave soon and live on a reservation to the south. I think the soldier chief Anthony is an honorable man and, if I can make him understand that it would not be a good thing to take the people to the reservation, he would see that we need to be where there is game to hunt and buffalo to make our clothes and cover our tipis. I have seen this land where they want us to go. It is a dead land. Nothing lives there but snakes and toads. But I can’t make him understand, and the reason is because he does not speak our tongue. He uses a Crow scout to speak for me and I don’t trust him to give the soldier chief my words. I have never met a Crow who was trustworthy anyway. I know that you speak the white man’s tongue. Tomorrow, when I go to meet with the soldier chief, you will be at my side. You will talk for me and make the soldier chief understand.”

  So this was the reason Black Kettle had summoned him. He was to be the old chief’s interpreter. He was to sit by Black Kettle’s side in an official meeting with Major Anthony. As he and Spotted Pony walked back to their tipi, his head was buzzing with the importance of his mission. He wondered what Black Feather would think if he knew that he, a Kit-fox, was to sit at the side of Black Kettle. This was a post rightfully suited to an elder. He wondered if this Major Anthony would know that he was really a white boy. He pondered the thought for a moment or two before deciding that he would look like his tribesmen tomorrow. He would have Buffalo Woman apply plenty of grease to his usually unruly hair to make the braids dark and straight. His skin, at least that which was exposed to the elements, was dark enough. He must ask Man Above to give him wisdom and maturity for tomorrow. He had not yet undergone the ritual of fasting for four days and then going off alone to seek a nedicine vision. The Arapaho did not practice this ritual until they reached manhood. Consequently, he did not wear a medicine bundle. But he didn’t need one. He would wear his necklace of bear claws that Spotted Pony had made for him. That would be medicine enough. The thought struck him that he wanted to tell Morning Sky of this honor bestowed upon him but he just as quickly dismissed it. Why should he want to tell a child of this?

  Buffalo Woman was proud almost to the point of bursting when told of the honor brought to her tipi by her son. Her face was radiant with the pride that only a mother could feel. She pressed Spotted Pony to repeat every word of praise that Black Kettle had bestowed upon her son. Little Wolf could not remember ever seeing her happier than she was at that moment. Her excitement was infectious. It would be difficult for him to sleep that night and he needed to be well rested for his mission the next day.

  * * *

  He awoke early the next morning, shivering with the cold. It had been almost too warm in the tipi that night and he had fallen asleep with no robe over his bare torso. During the night the fire died down and the late November chill finally began to penetrate the thick air of the tipi. It was not yet daylight so he reached for a robe to pull over him. After a few moments he remembered the responsibility he had been given for this day and his thoughts soon brought him to be wide awake. After a few moments more he decided that his mind was too alert to sleep any longer so he tossed the robe aside. He felt the need to relieve himself anyway, so he pulled a buckskin tunic over his head and stood up. The tipi was dark except for the faint red glow of what live coals were left of the fire. In the darkness he could just make out the sleeping forms of his mother and father, bundled under a mound of buffalo robes. He took great pains to move quietly so he would not disturb them as he took a few sticks of firewood from the stack against the side of the tipi. Using one of the sticks as a poker, he stirred the coals until he made a glowing bed to lay the wood on. After watching the coals until he was sure the wood had caught flame, he went outside.

  As soon as he dropped the entrance flap and stood erect, the chill of the morning hit him like a splash of cold water. A heavy frost covered the ground, giving the gathering of tipis an icy look, and brought about an involuntary shiver. Looking toward the east, out across the narrow river, he saw the first rays of the new day probing the silver darkness. It would be daylight soon. As he stood there before the entrance of Buffalo Woman’s tipi, he could see the fiery tip of the sun over the distant prairie. His breath rose before his face like smoke. Then his bladder reminded him why he had gotten up and he quietly moved through the row of tipis to the edge of the camp.

  Even in the early hours of the morning, when there was little risk that anyone might see him relieving himself, Little Wolf went well beyond the perimeter of the village to do his business. Unlike most young men of the tribe, he had always retained a certain degree of modesty when it came to answering nature’s calls. His friend Black Feather laughed at his modesty and would, as often as not, relieve himself by the side of the tipi. The thought caused Little Wolf to smile to himself as he stood there in the cold. He wondered where Black Feather was on this morning, high up in the mountain country. “Probably under a knee-high snowfall,” he grunted to himself.

  Finished with nature’s business, he paused for a few minutes to look about him. There was light now, enough for the land around him to take shape. Since he had just arrived at this place, he had not really had time to look around the village. Had it been his decision, he decided, he would have found a better place to locate the camp. There seemed to be no regard for the traditional precautions usually observed when locating any Cheyenne camp. He recalled the initial feelings he had experienced the day before when he first saw the village, reminding him of a prison compound. Even though Black Kettle had told him that the tribe had settled there with Major Anthony’s permission and his promise of protection, Little Wolf still found it unusual that there were no sentries posted around the camp. Maybe he would be more reassured after meeting with the fort commander this morning, he thought, and pushed it from his mind.

  Fingers of sunlight were just touching on the narrow band of water below the village now. Little Wolf decided to walk down to the river, which was little more than a stream, to see if he might catch sight of a muskrat. Moving silently and crouching to keep from making a high silhouette on the riverbank, he moved close to the water’s edge and sat motionless for a long time, watching and listenin
g. Back in the village a dog barked. Soon it was joined by several others. Little Wolf crawled back up to the top of the bank to see what had caused the disturbance. He could see nothing. The village was still sleeping as far as he could tell. He had walked several hundred yards beyond the outermost tipis by this time so it was difficult to see into the village. He listened hard but could hear nothing above the barking of the dogs. The sun was now touching the tipis on the extreme eastern rim of the village but the only signs of life were a few random ribbons of smoke indicating that some of the women were stirring up their cook fires.

  He turned his attention back to the stream briefly before deciding that he was ready to return to the tipi for something to eat. When he stood up, he heard it. At first he could not identify the noise and he stood stone still, listening. It was a curious sound, muffled like a herd of buffalo. Then he felt the slight tremble of the earth beneath his feet and he immediately recognized that to be the same vibration he had felt during the summer hunts when the tribe stalked the great herds on the plains. The sounds he heard in the next few moments told him it was not buffalo he heard. When buffalo ran, there was no jingling of bridle and harness and no clink of metal on metal. He scrambled back up to the lip of the bank just as he heard the bugle call and then chaos erupted upon the unsuspecting village.

  He was stunned by the scene before him, some several hundred yards downstream. Row upon row of troopers crested the rise above the village and swept down through the shallow water and into the sleeping camp, firing into the tipis and at anything that moved. The ranks of soldiers seemed to be endless. Like a great scythe, they cut through the defenseless village wreaking total destruction as they went to the other side, then wheeled and crisscrossed their way back through. The screams of terror carried above the almost constant roar of rifle fire. It was obvious that there was no thought of capture. The army’s mission was nothing short of annihilation.