by Judd Cole
As bullets whipped past them and raised plumes of dirt around their ponies’ pounding hooves, they urged their mounts closer to the sheer sandstone face that sloped almost straight down to the river. The militiamen bore down on them in a thunder of iron-shod hooves, sure of their prize now as the Cheyenne closed in on the drop-off. But their victory was snatched from them when the two ponies flew over the cliff!
Matthew felt himself leaving the ground as his pony leaped. While airborne, he tingled with the headlong, dizzy rush of falling. Then the pony’s desperately scrabbling hooves found a purchase on the steep, smooth slope by means of a delicate balancing act. Matthew had to stretch almost straight back over the pony’s rump to prevent it from tumbling. But miraculously the pony gained its footing. A quick glance assured Matthew that Little Horse had been as fortunate as he. Without wasting a second, they forded the Powder.
With a ferocious cry, one of the whites savagely spurred his dun stallion until it jumped over the edge above. It nickered in panic, hooves skittering wildly, then tumbled head over rump to the bottom. The dun landed on the rider and killed him even as its own neck snapped like a dry limb.
More flying lead raised plumes of river water, but the two young Cheyenne made it across and raced to safety while the militia patrol frantically searched for a path down to their fallen comrade. Although they had escaped, the delay caused by their encounter troubled Matthew deeply. It was already midday, and Bighorn Falls was still four hours ride to the south. If they did not make it in time, they would have no village to ride back to on the Tongue River.
After the encounter with the militiamen, their only obstacle was a sudden downpour on the plains. But Matthew and Little Horse rode determinedly on through the slanting gray sheets of rain, their ponies’ hooves making loud sucking sounds each time they lifted them from the mud.
Matthew’s destination was the two-room cabin Corey Robinson shared with his father in a piece of bottomland west of Bighorn Falls. He wasn’t sure his old boyhood friend would be willing to help him since he had chosen to become a red man. Despite their long friendship, Matthew feared Corey might consider him the enemy. But Corey was the final hope for Yellow Bear’s tribe.
The sun was westering by the time Matthew and Little Horse crested the last ridge overlooking Bighorn Falls. They skirted the town, carefully, and Matthew resisted the strong urge to gaze down toward the familiar building with the bright-green canvas awning advertising Hanchon’s Mercantile. He was afraid of what might show in his face to Little Horse.
The narrow wagon rut that led to the Robinson place also passed by an outlying fofaraw, or bawdy house, which the town would not permit within its boundaries. It was a crude plank-and-canvas structure frequented by local miners and ranch hands. The Cheyenne were careful to swing wide and avoid it. But no sooner had they regained the wagon road than they rounded a dogleg turn and almost collided with two men on horseback.
Boone Wilson and his miner friend Enis McGillycuddy had been sharing a bottle of whiskey ever since Wilson drew his month’s wages from his boss Hiram Steele earlier that day. Having built up their courage with the liquor they were headed to the women for a little fun. Surprised speechless at suddenly encountering two young Indians in their path, neither man recognized the tall, sun-bronzed Cheyenne as Matthew Hanchon.
“Well, lookit here,” Wilson said, his long-jawed face shadowy with beard stubble. “A pair of bucks what done wandered from the herd!”
“And I reckon I know why they’re wandering around here,” McGillycuddy said. The black-bearded miner was fed up with Indian raids on his camp.
The butt of McGillycuddy’s scattergun protruded from his saddle scabbard. Wilson was armed with a Colt Navy revolver. Instead of keeping his weapon in a holster, he wore it protruding butt-first from a sash around his waist.
“These is pretty piddlin’ excuses for braves,” Wilson said. “Fact is, I reckon these red niggers wouldn’t know a war whoop if they heard one.”
As McGillycuddy reached for his scattergun, Little Horse raised the musket hidden behind his pony.
Wilson’s flat, pale-ice eyes mocked both of the Indians. He carefully noted that the other Cheyenne, who was starting to look familiar, carried no rifle or sidearm.
“Don’t miscalculate yourself, red boy,” Wilson said to Little Horse. “You only got one ball in that old hogleg.”
Baring crooked, yellow, broken-tombstone teeth, in a drunken grin, McGillycuddy leveled his scattergun at Little Horse. “I say let’s scalp us a couple bucks. Scalps’ll fetch money at Fort Laramie.”
Little Horse, who did not understand one word of English, calmly pulled the trigger of his weapon. The musket belched smoke, and there was a sound like a melon bursting open as the huge musket ball smashed McGillycuddy’s rib-cage and knocked him off his horse. Startled by the explosion, the miner’s big roan stallion bolted away.
Wilson was shocked sober, and in that crucial moment, he recognized Matthew and remembered the day at Hiram Steele’s ranch when he had practically beaten the boy senseless.
“You!” Wilson said. Then he clawed the Colt out of his sash, cocked the hammer, and fired.
Matthew felt an invisible, red-hot wire crease his cheek. Then the bone-handle knife was in his fist. He raised it over his head and threw it in one smooth, hard movement, just as he had often practiced in the mornings while Black Elk’s band still slept.
Boone Wilson’s narrow eyes went huge with surprise as the blade sliced into his belly. His arms flying out wide, he slumped out of the saddle and lay dying beside his already dead companion.
For a long moment, the two young friends sat on their ponies. They remained silent as they realized they had just made their first kills. Then, without a word, Little Horse dismounted. He collected McGillycuddy’s weapons—the scattergun and a clasp knife he found in the dead man’s pocket—as his rightful trophies. Matthew did the same with Wilson’s Navy Colt and the Bowie in his sheath.
When Little Horse jerked the knife out of Wilson and made an outline cut on the miner’s skull, Matthew felt his stomach surge. But he told himself he was a Cheyenne, and he must accept the Cheyenne way. His face calm and expressionless as a brave’s should be, he watched his friend finish his cut. Little Horse stood on the dead man’s neck with one foot, then lifted the bloody scalp off in a powerful snap. He handed the knife back to Matthew, who did not hesitate before he too knelt to take his first scalp.
A short ride brought them in sight of the Robinson place. From the cover of a cedar brake, Matthew watched Corey cutting out a stump near one front corner of the cabin. For years he and his pa had been slowly trying to improve the land so the government would grant them clear title. Eventually they hoped to capture wild mustangs and halter break them, selling them to the flatboat crews going up the Powder. But since Corey’s pa had got the call and taken to preaching out at the Sweetwater Creek mining camp, the work had gone slowly.
The two Cheyenne hobbled their horses with rawhide and left them behind the cedars. The slab door of the cabin stood open behind Corey. Matthew and Little Horse approached carefully, watching the inside. They could glimpse a handful of split-bottom chairs, a three-legged stool, and corner shelves of crossed sticks, which held a few pottery dishes.
As Corey had raised his ax for another whack at the mule-stubborn stump, a shadow moved into the corner of his vision, and he spun around with his ax still raised. Two fierce, wild-looking Indians stood staring at him. One was tall, the other short, and both were young. They were practically naked, their skin turned dark as berry juice from the sun. One carried a scattergun, the other had a pistol in his sash. Both wore knives—and fresh scalps still dripping blood.
“God-in-whirlwinds!” Corey said, taking a step backward when he recognized the tall Indian. “Matthew?”
The fear eased from the redhead’s pale, freckled face. He flashed his gap-tooth grin. “Matthew! Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat! Is it really you?”
Corey thr
ust out his hand, and instinctively, Matthew was about to reach out and take his friend’s hand. But since Little Horse was watching him closely, he ignored Corey’s gesture. But when confusion and hurt flashed in Corey’s eyes, Matthew finally found his voice. The English words felt stiff and odd in his mouth.
“Corey, it’s really me, all right. This is Little Horse. I can’t do things like shake your hand anymore. There’s things I have to do different now, you understand?”
Corey stayed silent a long time. He studied the bright red line of blood where a bullet had creased his friend’s cheek, and again his eyes dropped to the fresh scalp.
“Dogs, if it ain’t all good doin’s!” he finally said. “Sure, I understand. I heard about what you done. Old Knobby told me. You really done it, Matthew. A real Indian, by God!”
Corey noticed Little Horse nervously watching the cabin. “Don’t fret,” he told the Cheyenne. “Pa’s out preachin’.”
Matthew translated. Then he said to Corey, “Are you still my friend?”
Corey grinned again. “Do green apples give you the droppin’s? Course I’m your friend. Why?”
“There isn’t time to explain now,” Matthew said. “Will you come with us?”
Corey didn’t hesitate. “Give me just a minute to catch my horse.”
The sun was only a ruddy glow on the western horizon by the time the three of them raced across the ridge overlooking Bighorn Falls. Forgetting his earlier resolve, Matthew glanced down toward the store. Immediately he regretted his action.
In the waning light, he could see his mother sweeping the boardwalk in front of the store. It was a ritual she went through several times a day. Spotting her made all the old feelings come back for a moment—including his feelings for Kristen.
Then his eyes fell to the scalp tied to his breechclout with a buckskin string. And that was the moment when Matthew knew for sure that he was a Cheyenne, and there was no going back. Kristen, his ma, his pa, Bighorn Falls—all of it was a dream, smoke that had blown behind him.
Honey Eater and the rest of the tribe were the only family he had. If he failed them, his family would die and he would be alone forever.
Chapter Sixteen
Arrow Keeper’s spirit was deeply troubled as he paused in the middle of camp to study the preparations for battle. Earlier that morning, Cheyenne lookouts high in the trees had reported the arrival of the final Pawnee bands. And since his sister the sun was well up over the eastern rim and had already burned the mist off the river, it would not be long before the fighting began.
It had been two sleeps since Matthew and Little Horse deserted the surrounded tribe. Perhaps they had been killed trying to escape. Arrow Keeper’s heart was heavy with sadness, for he could not accept that he had been wrong about the youth. The hopeful omen Arrow Keeper had experienced at Medicine Lake—the vision of greatness for the youth and the Cheyenne he would lead—surely must have been a cruel and false dream placed over his eyes by an enemy.
Troubled by his thoughts, the old man looked out at the warriors, many of them still boys, manning the rifle pits and breastworks. They had put on their best war clothes and painted themselves. Constant dancing and fasting and singing had left them raw nerved and alert.
Constant fighting among themselves was the red man’s downfall, Arrow Keeper thought, staring out toward the hills where the Pawnee were massing to attack. Instead of destroying each other, the Indians should have been battling their common enemies: evil, greedy white men and Indians who did not want peace. War meant great profits for the whites who supplied the Bluecoat armies— and for the Indian leaders who became the white men’s dogs and sold their sacred homelands, ignoring the cries of their people.
Once the Plains Indians roamed free like vast herds of buffalo. Those days were gone forever, and as time went on, the formerly great tribes diminished to scattered little bands on the run who had lost their hunting grounds along with their freedom. Yet, was it not the Indian who had first greeted the white men, who had first taught them how to plant and grow corn so they could survive those terrible winters in the new land? Instead of showing true gratitude, the whites had given the Indians their devil water and guns, then watched as the red men began to destroy each other. What sort of bad medicine, Arrow Keeper wondered, could have caused such a tragedy for the children of the Great Spirit?
Matthew, according to his medicine dream, was to have been the last great hope of the Cheyenne nation. When he ran off, all hope was lost forever. Death was massing all around the tribe, and the end of Yellow Bear’s Cheyenne people was at hand.
Suddenly, from the top of a nearby cottonwood, the wolf howl of danger sounded. Immediately the village crier leaped onto his pony and raced throughout camp, shouting over and over the terrible words that Yellow Bear’s tribe had heard far too often: Enemies right on us! Soon the attack!
Arrow Keeper returned to his tipi. His wrinkled, leathery face showed no emotion as duty took over. He removed the coyote-fur pouch from under his sleeping robes. Then he donned his magic panther shirt, which would protect him from bullets. He did not wear it out of fear for himself, but for his people. It was his most important duty to stay alive and protect the sacred Medicine Arrows from falling into enemy hands. The fate of the Medicine Arrows was the fate of the tribe.
But he feared that even his panther shirt would not be strong enough medicine to prevent the tragic outcome ahead, for which he was partly to blame. Had Arrow Keeper not placed too much faith in a dream? Had he not ignored the safety of the tribe by paying too much attention to an untested youth who turned out to be a white-livered coward?
Arrow Keeper lifted the flap of his tipi and stepped outside just as the Pawnee launched their first fire arrows from the nearest trees. The Pawnee did not send as many flaming arrows as they had in their previous attack because there were fewer trees surrounding the camp. When their enemies sent the arrows, Yellow Bear’s people were ready. Children had filled skins with water and stood by, ready to douse a fire before it could catch.
The charge had not yet begun. Arrow Keeper hurried to a rise at the south end of camp from which he could view the entire camp. As he raced up the small hill, he could hear the greatly outnumbered Cheyenne warriors singing the song of battle to fortify their courage.
When Arrow Keeper gazed out from the top of the rise, his heart turned over at the sight before him. Scores of well-armed Pawnee were streaming out of the trees into the sunlit clearing. They formed long, curving lines at the base of the hills behind them, preparing to charge. Even from a distance, Arrow Keeper could see they had darkened their faces and naked skulls with vermillion, ocher, ashes, and berry juice. More Pawnee braves guarded the escape routes, waiting to slaughter anyone who fled.
The medicine man’s eye was drawn to a lone figure sitting his horse in front of the first line. The dark cape trailing from his shoulders left no doubt that he was the bloodthirsty Pawnee leader War Thunder, whose medicine bundle was the slippery weasel. The hair of many dead Cheyenne adorned that human cape.
Below, in camp, the warriors who were not manning the rifle pits or breastworks ran to mount ponies. It did not matter who rode whose pony in battle. Each brave grabbed any horse at hand. By Cheyenne custom, he would not have to pay the rightful owner if the pony was killed in the fight. But afterwards, any enemy goods seized by the borrower must be given to the pony’s owner. To his regret, Arrow Keeper did not think any enemy trophies would be collected on that fateful day.
From amid the chaos of battle preparations, Black Elk, his face stern with proud courage, rode to the front of the Cheyenne defenders. But even as the warriors made ready to head into battle, War Thunder raised his streamered lance high. A shrill, unnerving war cry broke out from the Pawnee raiders. Hooves thundered, rifles spoke, and the enemy surged forward as the attack began.
Matthew and his friends made good time heading north to the Tongue. But each secretly feared that they would be too late to be of any help to
Yellow Bear and his tribe. The plains west of the Black Hills rose gray and unending as they pushed their mounts hard, stopping only to let them drink at creeks or buffalo wallows.
After a brief council, Matthew and Little Horse agreed to skirt the familiar Indian trail through the rugged mountains between the Powder River and the Little Bighorn. Instead, they decided to save time by taking a shortcut through the unscouted country north of Beaver Creek—country thick with white settlers. They agreed that riding with Corey eased their danger.
Luck was with them until Corey’s gelding, unused to the terrain, foundered and went lame only a short ride south of Yellow Bear’s camp. Although it had only bruised the tender area between the hoof and the fetlock, the horse needed to rest before it could move faster than a walk. The youths tethered the gelding in graze near water, and Matthew took Corey up with him.
The delay left both Cheyenne silent with frustration and worry. As the land began to dip lower and form the valley of the Tongue, their worry turned to cold dread. And as they neared the camp, several signs troubled them more. For a strange, foreboding silence had settled over the woods and grassy meadows of the valley. The sparrow hawks and wood thrushes were oddly quiet.
As they eased up on the long ridge behind the camp, they spotted the Pawnee sentries responsible for slaying anyone who fled the battle below them, and they made for cover. But before the sentries could notice the new arrivals, Cheyenne warriors began to sing their battle song. Since the Pawnee only had eyes for the scene below, they paid no attention to what went on behind them.
The trio crested the ridge and saw the battle scene laid out below like some grand painting. As they watched, War Thunder raised his lance to signal the charge. The next moment, the Pawnee war cry sent cold dread through Matthew.
“Quickly! Ride like the wind!” Little Horse said.
