* * *
Back in Wounded Elk’s village, Squint Peterson was beginning to worry about his young friend. It had been almost a week since Little Wolf had left the village in search of his vision. When Little Wolf said he was going to fast for four days, Squint expected him to be back in four days, not six. In the meantime, the men of the village had returned from their hunting party and Squint thought he could sense an uneasy atmosphere because of his presence. Some of these braves he knew, and had even hunted with them the year before. Now they were a mite reserved and cool toward him. It was not that they were impolite, for he was a guest of their chief. They were just not really cordial as they normally would be. Squint could see that they didn’t feel too comfortable with him around. He was a little disappointed with their attitude but he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to trust any white man anymore. He made up his mind that he wouldn’t be spending the next winter in these mountains.
The visit had not been a total loss, however. Old Wounded Elk’s sister-in-law, Broken Wing, had proved to be more than enough woman to catch Squint up on his sexual urges. The truth of the matter was she had just about worn him out. She had been without a husband for more than a year and she had some catching up to do herself. She would not have been a bad-looking woman had it not been for her nose. It had been broken by a Crow war club, the same club in fact that had done in her husband. She had been left for dead but she was tougher than they thought. The result was a flattened nose that restricted her breathing considerably, causing her to make a whistling noise when her passion was high and her heart was pumping hard. In the darkness of the tipi, it was not that noticeable at first. Toward the end of the third day, Squint began to notice it a little more, to the point of distraction.
When they made love, Squint wanted her to face him, like the whores back East. Broken Wing had never done it that way before, having always been mounted from behind by her husband, just like the horses and the dogs did it. But she wanted to please Squint so she lay on her back for him. The first time it was all right because Squint was so desperate for biological relief he could have gotten satisfaction from a knothole in a pine log. Broken Wing, on the other hand, thought it a rather strange way to mate and she couldn’t help but stare in wide-eyed amazement at Squint’s frantic fumbling and struggling. Pretty soon Squint began to notice her staring and it started to bother his concentration. Finally, he turned her around and mounted his assault from the rear. Now she was in a position with which she was familiar and she heated to the occasion. Squint found it less disturbing to his concentration anyway. He no longer had to avoid her wide-eyed stare and he didn’t have to look at her flattened nose. He found, in fact, that he was in for a wild ride because, when Broken Wing’s blood got overheated, she backed up to meet his thrusts, her nose whistling in rhythm, often backing him all the way across the floor of the tipi. He enjoyed the ride but his knees were getting sore from scraping the earthen floor. After a few days of love Injun style, he was glad to see Little Wolf stride back into camp one afternoon.
Squint welcomed his friend back. “Dang, pardner, you look like you been wrung out and hung up to dry.”
Little Wolf smiled at him but made no reply. Wounded Elk, who was visibly curious to know the success of this white Arapaho’s vision quest, stood silently by Squint. Most white men he had met did not have the intelligence to ask the spirits for guidance. They thought they knew everything already while it was plain to the Indian that they knew very little. He was pleased when Little Wolf looked first at him and requested food and rest so that he might complete his meditation. Wounded Elk looked deep into Little Wolf’s eyes and he was pleased to discover no sign of confusion there. He knew without being told that Little Wolf had found the answers he had sought. He sent for the old squaw who had assisted the young man with the purification of his body. Little Wolf smiled briefly at Squint once again and followed the old woman to Wounded Elk’s tipi.
Squint was confounded by his friend’s demeanor. “You rest up, pardner,” he offered as he watched Little Wolf walk away. “We’ll head on out as soon as you’re ready.” Even then he was not at all sure he would have company on his return trip. It was apparent to him that it was a different Little Wolf who had returned to the Shoshone village. Maybe he was just weak and dazed from lack of food and water. He hoped so, but there was a different look in the young man’s eye, like he had aged some in the few days he had been away. Something had happened to him up in those mountains and it looked to Squint like he might have lost his partner. All winter Squint thought Little Wolf would eventually go back to his real people. Now he was not so sure.
Squint did not see Little Wolf again until the following morning and, when he did, he was taken aback somewhat by the young man’s appearance. His hair had been freshly oiled and parted in the middle, in the style of the Cheyenne. This in itself was not so surprising. The sight that startled Squint was the appearance of his face. He had hacked away his whiskers with a hunting knife in an attempt to shave the stubble off smooth. The result was a face that sported patches of stubble of uneven length, interrupted by areas of raw skin where the blade had nicked him. Squint would have laughed out loud at the sight had it not been for the seriousness of the occasion. Little Wolf’s decision seemed to have been made.
“You done a lot for me and I appreciate it,” Little Wolf started, obviously searching for the words to tell Squint what Squint had already surmised. “I reckon I might have died if you hadn’t done for me.” Squint said nothing, just shrugged it off. Little Wolf continued, “I reckon I don’t have to tell you I’m going back to my people.”
“I reckon,” Squint answered. He studied the young man standing before him, his stance and manner already projecting the confident air of a Cheyenne warrior. There was no mistaking the look in his steady gaze, the look of a man who was sure of himself. Squint knew then that it would be a waste of time to try to change the boy’s mind. Still he made the effort. “Well, I reckon a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do, but you know you would sure be welcome to throw in with me if you change your mind.”
Little Wolf smiled. “I know.”
Squint hesitated a few moments, then continued, “Son, I know you like the wild life with the Cheyenne. Don’t blame you—I might like it myself. But it ain’t gonna be the same around these parts for much longer. You sure you’re gonna feel the same way six months or a year from now, when the real trouble gets stirred up? You might think you can stay clear of it up in these mountains but any fool can see there’s gonna be a helluva war with the Cheyenne and the Sioux. Hell, it’s already started. And ain’t no place gonna be safe.” He paused to see if his words had any effect on the boy. “And I wouldn’t consider myself any kind of friend if’n I didn’t warn you.”
Little Wolf shrugged. “These are my people.”
“What about when the soldiers come? What about then? You gonna be able to fight agin your own blood?”
“I will fight beside my people. I will fight my father’s enemies; the soldiers who killed Spotted Pony and Buffalo Woman could never be of my blood.” Little Wolf’s face took on a hardened look, his eyes narrowed as the memory of his parents’ slaughter returned to his mind. “I will live and fight with the Cheyenne, as my father did.”
“Robert,” Squint implored, using the boy’s Christian name, “you can’t win. There ain’t no way the Injuns is ever gonna win against the army. Why don’t you come on back with me? Hell, we’ll head up to the north country, go to Oregon territory, do some trappin’, lay around and get fat in the winter. Whaddaya say? Forget about the damn soldiers.”
Little Wolf stared deep into Squint’s eyes for a moment. Then his expression relaxed and he smiled as if he was patiently explaining to a child. “You have been a good friend to me. But I must go where my medicine tells me to go. I am Arapaho, no matter what I started out. My place is in the mountains with my Cheyenne brothers. If the army comes, then so be it. If they are too many, then it is better t
o die as a warrior than to sit around a campfire when I am so old I have no teeth to chew the pemmican.”
There was a long silence that seemed to put the final punctuation on the young warrior’s words. Finally Squint shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “Well, so be it then. I wish you well, son. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” His face broke into a quick smile and he added, “I can at least leave you my razor and strop so you don’t have to torment your face no more.”
Little Wolf laughed and ran a hand gingerly over his chin. “I’ll take you up on that and be damn grateful. Cheyenne generally pull their whiskers out by the roots but I ain’t too fond of that. I got too many of them.”
This would be the last time they would see each other for a long time. Little Wolf had made his decision and would leave early the following morning to scout the north ridges in search of his Cheyenne friends. Squint, after one final stampede across the tipi floor with Wounded Elk’s sister-in-law, would set out in the opposite direction for his camp two days east. He would be minus one horse on the trip back since he had insisted that Little Wolf take the little mare. He left with the definite feeling that things were not going to be the same in the Wind River country, and even though old Wounded Elk told him he was welcome to visit anytime, the sullen stares from the other men in the village told him differently. As he kicked Joe into a canter across the frosty meadow fronting the outside ring of lodges, he was already considering the wisdom in sticking to his secret camp the last two seasons. He sighed as he thought about it. It might be the last time he visited old Wounded Elk. It’s a damn shame, he thought, that the soldiers and the gold miners and the settlers had to mess things up for mountain men like himself. In a way he couldn’t blame Little Wolf for deciding to be Injun instead of going back to civilization. As for Squint, he preferred to line up on the winning side in most any scrap. And he had little doubt that the white man would win out over the Injun in the end.
“It ain’t gonna come cheap though,” he muttered aloud. “There’s gonna be a helluva lot of dead soldier boys before they build the first church on the Wind River.”
CHAPTER 10
“Gnats!” the soldier cursed softly under his breath. “What in hell did God have in mind when he made gnats?” He reached up for at least the fiftieth time since he had dove into the shallow ditch and fanned the bothersome insects from his eyes. “All they ever do is try to get in your eyes and ears and mouth, and up your damn nose.” He snorted softly as if to punctuate his statement. His behind was beginning to itch from the wet mud soaking through his trousers so he shifted his position, being very deliberate in his movements so he wouldn’t catch the eye of a Reb sniper.
The long sweltering Mississippi afternoon was gradually melting down into an early evening. An occasional errant breeze, having lost its way, blundered down the shallow ditch, teasing him with a moment’s respite from the heat trapped inside his sweat-soaked shirt. He turned his head to glance down the ditch a dozen feet at the stiff bodies of two Johnny Rebs. They were there when he dove into the ditch. He didn’t know if a rifle ball from his weapon had killed either of them. He didn’t care. He had stopped caring a million years ago when he had come through his first infantry charge alive.
He shifted his gaze back to the cornfield before him, raising his head just enough to allow clear vision above the low embankment. It had been dead quiet now for the better part of an hour. Soon it would be twilight. He wondered where the rest of his company was. When they charged into the woods, he was in the middle of a line of his comrades. The Rebs had laid down a blistering fire. Rifle balls were snapping through the leaves like angry bees. It seemed impossible to avoid being hit but somehow he had made it through. When he emerged from the trees, there was no one on either side of him so he scrambled for the first bit of cover he saw, which was this muddy ditch.
The last Confederate stragglers disappeared in the rows of corn and it appeared they would probably re-form on a ridge on the far side where they would have the high ground. He had decided to sit tight right where he was until some more of his company showed up. He damn sure wasn’t going to go charging into that cornfield by himself. As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long before the battle was rejoined. From the far end of the cornfield, a Union cavalry company suddenly appeared, sweeping through the rows of corn at full gallop. They were led by an officer on a spotted gray mount, sword raised high in front of him as he crouched forward in the saddle, yelling at the top of his lungs. The charge flushed out a dozen or more Rebel soldiers who had hidden between the rows. They scattered, fleeing for their lives before the charging horses. As he watched from the shallow ditch, he could not help but wonder about this enemy that had fought with such bloody obstinacy. At this moment, they did not even resemble a military unit, not a complete uniform among the handful he could see, looking more like a band of riffraff in flight. Yet this band of riffraff had proven in the last few days to be a force to be reckoned with, giving ground stubbornly to vastly superior Union forces. The mopping up of Vicksburg was supposed to be a fairly simple operation for General Grant. Overall, maybe it was. As for his own small piece of the operation, it had been damn bloody.
When the cavalry unit advanced to the far side of the cornfield, the Rebs on the ridge laid down a devastating volley of fire, taking a heavy toll on the troopers at the forefront of the charge. Among the first to go down was the officer on the spotted gray. Horse and rider tumbled under the hailstorm of miniballs. The horse soldiers retreated, regrouped and mounted a second sweep toward the ridge but were again turned back, suffering heavy losses. Finally, after one additional foray into the deadly field in an attempt to recover their wounded, the Union cavalry was forced to quit the fight. By then it was late afternoon and both sides apparently decided to withdraw for the night. The Confederate snipers on the ridge, however, continued to control all activity in the cornfield, firing at anything that moved. After an hour or so, there was no more sniper fire and the cornfield was quiet.
From his vantage point at the edge of the field, he could see the carnage that had resulted from the brief skirmish. He would wait until dark before exposing himself in the open pasture between him and the woods behind. The snipers were no doubt still watching from up on the ridge. There was no sense taking a chance. He would find his way back to his unit that night. So he lay there in the mud of the ditch and waited.
A slight movement toward the middle of the cornfield caught his eye and he strained to focus on the spot. For a long while there was nothing and then, suddenly, he saw it again. Someone was alive down there! As he continued to stare at the spot, a man struggled to pull himself between the corn rows, using only his arms to drag his body. His legs were apparently useless and he just barely managed to drag himself around the corpse of his horse in an attempt to put the dead animal between himself and the enemy on the ridge. It was the officer on the spotted gray and evidently it was all he could do to get that far because once he got behind his horse, he lay still again.
For the private watching from the cover of the ditch, there was no real decision to be made. One of his officers was lying wounded and he would have to go to his aid. But he wasn’t stupid enough to go running out there in broad daylight. He would wait until darkness and then try to see if he could get the man out of the cornfield. If the officer died before then, he would probably have died anyway. No sense in both of them dying. So now he waited, fighting the gnats, until he felt it safe to leave the ditch.
At last the twilight deepened enough for him to leave his hiding place. He crawled up over the bank of the ditch and paused there, listening. There was no sound of enemy activity other than the muffled voices from the ridge, indicating a settling down for the night. He felt confident there would be no one venturing down into the cornfield before morning, so he ran, half crouched, across the field toward the wounded officer.
Although it was still twilight, once he entered the corn rows it was much darker, and he found it neces
sary to stop often to make sure he was still heading toward the spot where he had seen the wounded man. The dirt was still warm from the afternoon sun and the smoke and smells of the recent battle still lingered, trapped upon the cornstalks like a shroud. There were dead men everywhere it seemed, as he made his way toward the middle of the field. He began to think he had miscalculated his directions and was about to double back when he spied the corpse of the spotted gray, ghostlike in contrast with the dark rows of corn. Dropping to his hands and knees, he inched his way closer. There was no sign of the officer.
Damn! he thought. Then he called out in a loud whisper, “Sir, can you hear me?” There was no response. He decided he wasn’t going to waste much more time in this field of death but he tried once more. “Sir, I’m a Union soldier, come to help you.” As he called out, he continued to crawl in a circle around the carcass of the horse. Suddenly he heard the unmistakable click of a cavalry pistol cocking. It was off to his left and he froze in his tracks.
“I’ve got a pistol aimed right at your head,” a low husky voice advised him.
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