So they fought side by side with the Sioux throughout the rest of that year, raiding the army patrols and work parties until, finally, the army conceded defeat and work was halted on the Bozeman Trail. The army could not guarantee safe passage for the trains of immigrants coming out from the East. The pilgrims would have to take the longer way west of the Big Horn Mountains. The Sioux had prevailed. A second Treaty of Fort Laramie was signed, giving the Sioux exclusive rights to all of the territory west of the Missouri. The army agreed to remove all its troops from the Powder River country but Red Cloud refused to sign the treaty until he had seen the soldiers leave and his warriors had burned the three forts on the Powder and Big Horn. An unsteady peace settled over the mountains as another winter began to seep into the narrow valleys.
* * *
Little Wolf sat before the campfire, his legs crossed in front of him, a flap of deer hide spread over his lap to hold the bolt and trigger assembly of his rifle. Most of the Sioux who had rifles never cleaned or oiled them. They would simply fire them until the weapons fouled and then use them as clubs. Little Wolf had learned to clean a rifle as a boy when he was with Lige Talbot and he never forgot the importance of it. He encouraged his warriors to do the same but he knew his words were wasted. They looked upon a rifle as a somewhat magical thing. There was never any thought toward learning the mechanics of it. Little Wolf glanced up from his cleaning and smiled as a familiar figure came striding toward him.
“I see you finally decided to crawl out of your robe to see what the daylight looks like.”
Black Feather smiled sheepishly and settled himself next to his friend by the fire. “I have been thinking, not sleeping.”
Little Wolf laughed. “This is very serious,” he joked, but he could see that his friend was in earnest.
“I have been thinking,” he continued, “that it has been a long time since I have seen my uncle. It is getting cold. Before long the snows will come to the mountains.”
Little Wolf nodded. Although Black Feather did not mention his sister, Little Wolf guessed his friend longed to see her as well. They had been very close as children but, as was the custom, he did not mention her name once they had both reached maturity. In fact, Black Feather had not mentioned Morning Sky’s name since Little Wolf had found their camp after leaving Squint Peterson and the Shoshone village. On that day, Little Wolf’s heart was heavy because he thought that Morning Sky and her uncle had been killed in the massacre at Sand Creek and he bore the burden of giving the news to Black Feather. When he attempted to explain to his friend that he had been unable to come to their aid, Black Feather interrupted him with the startling news that both Morning Sky and his uncle managed to escape, along with Black Kettle and several others. This one piece of news brought a sense of relief to Little Wolf’s mind, for he had borne the guilt of not being able to help one he had promised to protect. It had been a long time, four winters in fact, since he had last seen Morning Sky. As Black Feather talked, he tried to form a picture of her in his mind and found that he could not.
“We have fought many battles. It is time we rested, I think.” Black Feather hesitated. “I want to see my people again. Will you go with me?”
Little Wolf shrugged his shoulders. He considered the invitation. He had not given much thought toward the coming winter. Unlike their Sioux allies, his small band of Cheyennes had no women to ease the long winter nights. Perhaps they would have been welcome in Sitting Bull’s winter encampment but Little Wolf preferred to maintain a certain degree of independence. For that reason, he and his warriors had moved back up into the mountains once the fighting had ceased. After thinking about Black Feather’s request for a few moments, he shrugged again and spoke.
“We have been away for a long time. How do you know where to find Morning Sky and your uncle?”
“A man rode into Red Cloud’s camp two days ago. He had come from Black Kettle’s village on the Washita in the Oklahoma territory. He said that he knew my uncle. He saw him in Black Kettle’s camp.”
Little Wolf thought about this for a moment. He really had no reason not to go. Like Black Feather, he was somewhat weary of the recent raiding parties and the battles with the soldiers. And now that there was supposedly a new peace, there should be little danger in undertaking the journey. Still, he hesitated. He had come to enjoy the safety of the high mountains where he could rest from the war without the necessity for being constantly alert. On the other hand, it would be pleasant to visit a Cheyenne village again with women, children, old men and dogs, eating pemmican and corn mush. He smiled and said, “We will go then.”
This brought a wide smile of gratitude to Black Feather’s face. He wanted very much to visit his people but he was reluctant to leave Little Wolf’s side. They had come to be very close after fighting side by side for the past several years and Black Feather had come to think of him as a brother. It would be a long journey to Black Kettle’s village, maybe twenty or more sleeps, and he did not want to leave his brother that long. It was winter and peace was always uncertain in these times. No one could say what tomorrow would bring.
* * *
Morning Sky walked leisurely along the narrow path through the willows that lined the river. She carried a pail made of buffalo hide which she would fill with water to cook with the next morning. She enjoyed this walk at the end of each day. The river was peaceful in the fading light of the short winter days and it always filled her soul with its peace. She was never bothered by the chill in the late afternoon air, wearing no blanket over her deerskin dress. The leggings she wore under her skirt were enough to keep her legs warm and she was never overly uncomfortable. Her hair, long and dark as night, was worn parted in the middle from her forehead to the nape of her neck and braided, then tied together behind her ears. Some of the women in the village painted the part in their hair with red or yellow. She preferred to leave hers unpainted. In fact, she wore no decorations on her face at all since she was not interested in attracting the attention of any young suitors, a fact that caused her uncle some dismay. There had been several men of the tribe who would gladly have given her uncle as many as ten horses for her hand, for she was a handsome and virtuous girl. But she refused to consider any of them. She knew that she was a burden in some respects to her uncle as he felt she was well past the age to marry, but he remained patient with her. She, in turn, did more than her share to help Yellow Swallow. If her uncle’s wife resented her presence in the tipi, she never demonstrated it.
Kneeling on the riverbank, she lowered the skin bucket into the clear water, holding it by a rawhide thong. She watched, not really concentrating on the bucket, as it slowly began to fill and sink beneath the surface of the slowly moving current. All at once she shivered for no apparent reason. She was not cold, yet a strange feeling penetrated her thoughts and she was suddenly aware of a foreign presence. At first she was alarmed and she quickly looked around her. Then her gaze was caught by a slight movement in the cottonwoods across the narrow river and held there. In a moment a young warrior emerged from the trees. He was walking, leading his horse. She recognized him at once.
“Black Feather!” she cried out, forgetting tribal custom that prohibited brother and sister from speaking after maturity. Even if she had remembered, she would have called out to him anyway, for Morning Sky was uncommonly independent for a Cheyenne girl. Those silly customs were for the old people anyway. She sprang to her feet and literally jumped up and down in her excitement at seeing her brother. Waving her arms, she called his name over and over, “Black Feather! Black Feather!”
Suddenly she stopped stone-still, her brother’s name still on her tongue. For now, behind her brother, a tall figure appeared. The unadorned buckskin tunic he wore could not hide the wide shoulders it covered. His dark hair was tied in two braids and crowned by a single eagle feather. He stood a full head taller than Black Feather. It could be no other than Little Wolf.
“Little Wolf.” She whispered the name to herself and c
ould not help but be aware of the sudden pounding in her bosom. But this was not the boy she had thrown herself so wantonly at four years before at Sand Creek. Even at this distance, she could see that this was indeed Little Wolf, the young warrior chief whose bravery had been sung before the campfire of her own village. Although gone from her people for many moons, word had been brought by messengers over the years of the deeds of their young Cheyenne raiders. But most of all, the songs were sung about Little Wolf. She had prayed to Man Above that she be permitted to see him again, that he would not die in battle before she could at least see him once again. And now her prayers had been granted. Little Wolf had returned!
Little Wolf had not expected the welcome extended to them by Black Kettle and the village. He expected to be received courteously, even warmly, for these were his people. But he and Black Feather were treated as conquering heroes. A feast and ceremonial dance were immediately planned to honor the two young warriors for their daring raids against the soldiers. Little Wolf was unexplainably attacked by a siege of modesty and declined to participate in the dance, preferring to remain a spectator. Black Feather, however, was eager to dance and sing of Little Wolf’s raid on the soldier fort and the ambush by the river, deeds that had prompted the mighty Sioux chief Red Cloud to award him the eagle feather he now wore.
The people were joyous to have an occasion to celebrate for this’ had not been the best of times for Black Kettle’s village. Away from the Sioux wars, Black Kettle had continued to petition for peace. But since he was still unwilling to live on the reservation, his people were regarded as renegades and were still harrassed by the army. Their crime against the U.S. goverment was their desire to live free, as they had always lived. But this was no longer a choice that they could freely make. The winter was going to be hard, and the buffalo were disappearing from the plains. The Cheyenne had been forced to give up most of their hunting grounds to the north and this winter found them still farther south. With the heavy snows still facing them, Black Kettle grieved for the suffering of his people. There would be little to eat in this land.
Although proud and pleased by the attention he and Black Feather received, Little Wolf still felt embarrassed at the same time. He was glad when the celebrating was over and he retired to the tipi of Black Feather’s uncle to rest. When he finally drifted off, his sleep was deep and he did not awaken until the sun had climbed halfway up the tall cottonwoods near the river.
“So, the mighty warrior chief has finally decided to climb out of his buffalo robe,” Morning Sky teased when he came out of the tipi. Although it was getting colder day by day, the women still cooked outside the tipi. “I suppose now you want me to get you something to eat.”
Little Wolf smiled, embarrassed. For a reason he could not explain, he didn’t feel comfortable around Morning Sky. She had grown up so much. He found it difficult to talk to her and he felt clumsy when in her presence. “I’m not hungry,” he lied and mumbled that he needed the privacy of the woods.
“I will leave some food for you by the fire. If you’re hungry, eat it. Maybe the dogs won’t find it first.” She smiled as she gazed after the tall figure disappearing around the side of the tipi. Little Wolf had grown to be a man. But she could still recognize the bashful stumblings of a young boy who had just discovered the mysteries of the opposite sex. His reaction to her pleased her.
* * *
In the days that followed, Little Wolf gradually relaxed into the routine of the village. The principal activity of every man in the village, consisting of perhaps seventy-five tipis, was to hunt for food. Black Feather and Little Wolf joined in this pursuit but there was very little game to find. They would hunt from sunup to sunset, ranging far from camp, only to return with a rabbit or two. Still, at night, he would sleep easily. He had lived almost as an animal for so long in the mountains that it was difficult to sleep without one ear to the ground in case the enemy might find his camp. His small band of warriors often moved their camp to avoid surprise attacks. The army always had Indian scouts, usually the hated Pawnee or Crow, searching for their whereabouts. Now, temporarily safe, he feared he was getting lazy, maybe too comfortable with village life. He even began to think of taking a wife. These were thoughts that had never invaded his mind before and he tried to dismiss them. In fact, he was almost terrified by them. He was in no position to take on the responsibility of a wife. When these thoughts came creeping back, he knew it was the sight of Morning Sky that spawned them. His mind kept taking him back to that night near Sand Creek when she had attempted to seduce him. She was but a child and he had playfully rebuked her offer. Should he have given it more serious consideration? No, he told himself. She was but a child. Besides, there was no way he could have a wife while fighting in the Powder River country. That had been the secret of their mobility: no women or children to slow them down. But now, even though he tried to stay away from her most of the day in an effort to appear disinterested, he found that his mind was filled with her almost constantly.
* * *
Chief Black Kettle called the elders of the village into his lodge to discuss the dismal prospects that lay before them. Black Feather’s uncle was among those who sat in council with the chief. The U.S. government had reopened an old army fort, Fort Cobb, as an Indian refuge. It was said that the white chief, Hazen, offered food and supplies to peaceful tribes who agreed to settle there. It was decided that Black Kettle and several of the leaders of the tribe should go to Fort Cobb and talk to this man, Hazen. Unlike the Dog Soldiers, Black Kettle’s band of Cheyenne had always sought peace, even after the Sand Creek massacre. The elders of the village conceded that Black Kettle should agree to bring his people into Fort Cobb and submit to the white man’s rule. The delegation would leave the next morning for Fort Cobb.
Later that evening, when Black Feather’s uncle returned to the tipi, he related the decision to his nephew and his friend. The news was distressing to Little Wolf and Black Feather.
“Uncle, this delegation will bring no good to our people. Surely you do not expect the white soldiers to keep their word.” Black Feather was clearly upset. “Old Black Kettle has lost his teeth and wants to sit around the white man’s fire and eat flour cakes.”
His uncle looked at him with eyes tired from searching for bright futures that never came. He patiently replied, “You and your friend have been away from our village for many winters. Look around you. Do you see fat women and healthy babies? You have been in the big mountains. There, in the land of the Sioux, there may be buffalo and antelope and elk. You have hunted with us every day. Did you see deer? Did you see buffalo?”
Black Feather was exasperated. “Why do you stay in this sorry land? Why don’t you lead the people north to join our Dakota brothers?”
His uncle shook his head sadly. “It is too late.” His eyes saddened as he explained, “The soldiers would not let us leave and we cannot fight our way out. Most of our young warriors left us long ago to fight with the Dog Soldiers, just as you did. We have many old men and women. Soon the snows will come. Many would die on the trail.”
“It is better to die fighting than to be a beggar at the white man’s fort,” Black Feather snorted although he knew his uncle spoke the truth. He had to accept the fact that it would probably be better for the village to go to the reservation if only to survive the winter. Perhaps in the spring they could break from captivity again. He sighed and turned to his friend. “What do you say, Little Wolf?”
Little Wolf had been silent during the discussion, listening to both men. He shrugged his shoulders as if it was none of his affair. “I am a guest in this village and would not dispute the wisdom of the elders. Perhaps it is best for the people to go to the reservation. It is better than starving the women and children. For myself, I know this. The white man’s word is like the thistle on the prairie. It bends with the direction of the wind and it changes as the wind changes. The soldiers said you would be safe at Sand Creek. The soldiers said that no wagon trai
ns would come through our hunting grounds. The soldiers said there would be peace. Now your people are camped in these hills, waiting for the winter snows to starve them because the white man wants our hunting grounds for himself. So I say, I do not trust the white man’s word. I will not go to the fort.”
“I go with Little Wolf!” Black Feather exclaimed.
There was no further discussion of the matter that night. Black Feather’s uncle only shook his head sadly; the look in his eyes told of youth long lamented when he too would have gone with Little Wolf. On the other side of the fire, Morning Sky sat beside Yellow Swallow. The two women sat silently working on a fox skin that would become a warm headdress for her uncle. Though she did not comment, Morning Sky made up her mind that she too would go with Little Wolf, whether she was invited or not. She did not intend to wait another four years to see him again.
When Black Kettle’s delegation returned from Fort Cobb, the news they brought back to their people was not good. They had met with Hazen. Black Kettle offered to bring his people into the reservation but Hazen rejected his offer. Hazen told the disheartened chief that he had no authority to let his people come in because Black Kettle’s band was considered hostile and Hazen didn’t have the authority to sign a peace treaty with the chief. In fact, he further advised Black Kettle that General Philip H. Sheridan was even then on his way to find his band and punish them for not coming into the reservation when they were first instructed to do so. Black Kettle pleaded in vain that he had always sought peace. Hazan dismissed the delegation, saying there was nothing he could do for them. The old chief’s face and those of his party were etched in solemn lines of defeat when they rode into the circle of tipis on the Washita. A meeting was called in the council lodge that night.
Wind River Page 19
