by Judd Cole
Having already explained their idea to Corey, Matthew and Little Horse steered their ponies toward the river and the shelter of the trees. The din from below covered their sound and kept the sentries from spotting them. They had to get Corey ready to play his part. And if he wasn’t in the right place, all their efforts would be for naught.
The air was filled with the sounds of guns firing, horses nickering, and warriors shouting. The first Pawnee line had formed a wedge with War Thunder at its head. They were bearing steadily down on the defenders.
The two Cheyenne left Corey at the river to prepare, urging him to hurry. Then, as they raced up toward camp to join the battle against the approaching line of Pawnee, they shouted their shrill cry, “Hiya, hi-i-i-ya!”
In the camp, the Cheyenne were faring poorly. Black Elk’s spotted pony fell dead. The young war chief continued forward on foot, red streamers flying from his lance. Suddenly a withering line of fire from the Pawnee line cut a ragged hole in the defenders. A lead ball shattered Black Elk’s left shinbone, and his rifle flew from his hand when he fell. At the same instant, screaming loudly in wild triumph, Pawnee warriors began to leap into the rifle pits and stab the Cheyenne marksmen.
“Hurry, Corey,” Matthew thought desperately, glancing toward the river.
Little Horse surged forward and raised his captured scattergun. He discharged both barrels point-blank at two Pawnee who were about to leap on a Cheyenne defender. The enemies were blown back away from the pit, their faces shredded to raw meat. Little Horse dropped the empty scattergun and, seizing the musket from his scabbard, killed a third Pawnee. When his pony took a slug in the belly and fell, the youth unsheathed his knife and waded into the fight on foot, screaming the war cry.
Emboldened by his friend’s courage, Matthew drew the Colt pistol from his sash and started to follow Little Horse. Then an image caught in the corner of his eye made his heart leap into his mouth.
The first attackers had slipped through the defenses and were in the camp. They shot children, old squaws, or anyone else who was unlucky enough to be within their aim. Two of them were training their rifles on a young Cheyenne woman who carried a terrified infant. She was running toward shelter behind the council lodge, her braids streaming in the air, but without help, she would die before she made it to safety.
Matthew glimpsed white columbine petals and realized the girl was Honey Eater. He wanted desperately to help her, but he was too far out of range for his pistol to be of any use. His blood cold with dread, he urged his pony in her direction.
As one Pawnee aimed at the maiden’s back, Arrow Keeper suddenly darted forth from nowhere and threw his panther skin around the girl. The Pawnee fired from only ten feet away, and Matthew cried out, as if the ball were striking him instead of the girl he loved. He expected Honey Eater to drop, but miraculously she kept on running.
The second Pawnee fired at the maiden from even closer range. But despite the fact that the Pawnee’s bullet should have killed her, Honey Eater raced on, still carrying the squalling infant. Only then, after Matthew had spent a cap and cartridge killing one of the Pawnee, did he understand that Arrow Keeper’s big magic had just saved Honey Eater.
But surely it was already too late for the tribe. With a wild shout of triumph, the first advancing line overran the breastworks and began swarming through the camp like frenzied ants. Scores more followed from the hills. All seemed lost—until suddenly, like an avalanche gathering strength from above the tree line of a mountain, a different kind of shout rose up from the Pawnee attackers, a shout of fear. It began at the left end of the line, the end closest to the river, then spread like wildfire until almost all the Pawnee were crying out like frightened children.
The guns fell silent, the warriors froze in place. All heads—Cheyenne as well as Pawnee—turned toward the river in amazed disbelief at what they were witnessing. A skinny white boy, his freckled skin as pale as moonstone, was capering madly toward the battlefield, naked as a newborn. His body was streaked with bright red bank clay. A foolish, lopsided grin was plastered on his face. He turned cartwheels and leaped high into the air as he advanced.
To the horror of the Pawnee, the white boy started screaming at the top of his lungs. He quoted Scripture to the dumbfounded Indians. “‘But when ye shall hear of wars and commotions, be not terrified! For these things must first come to pass, yet the end is not at hand!’”
Shrieking, trampling each other in their haste, the Pawnee raced for the hills as fast as they could urge their horses, fleeing the evil spirit approaching from the river. As he watched Corey prance about, Matthew remembered that day at Fort Bates when a half-witted mule skinner terrified the Pawnee scouts. Stow this lads, the sergeant had told his recruits. A Pawnee figgers that a crazy-by-thunder white man is the worst bad medicine on God’s green earth!
One Pawnee, however, was too far ahead of the others to realize, at first, what was happening. Matthew glimpsed the huge black cape made of scalps and recognized War Thunder. With his stone-tipped lance thrust out before him, the mounted renegade chief was closing in rapidly on Yellow Bear.
Earlier, Yellow Bear had been surrounded by a protective band of headmen. But he broke free of them when he saw his daughter in danger. Now he stood in the open, unprotected, staring toward the white boy in astonishment like the rest. He was oblivious to the danger approaching him.
But Matthew wasn’t, and he vowed to stop War Thunder from adding Yellow Bear’s scalp to his belt. The youth dug his knees into his pony and they leaped forward. An unfamiliar pistol was useless at that range. Gripping the pony’s neck with one arm, still on the run, he leaned low over a fallen Cheyenne and seized his double-bladed throwing ax.
Shamed by his earlier failures during training, Matthew had spent hours practicing on his own for just such a moment. Only two in the Cheyenne tribe, Arrow Keeper and Honey Eater, saw him as he let the ax fly. A few heartbeats before War Thunder’s lance tip would have skewered Chief Yellow Bear, the ax wedged itself deep into the Pawnee’s skull.
Only as War Thunder collapsed at his feet did Yellow Bear realize that he had been in danger. But the chief was too amazed to worry about any threat to himself. All he could do was stand in disbelief and watch the Pawnee reverse their charge.
One Pawnee had frozen in a crouch, immobile with fear as the evil white river spirit approached him with arms out flung.
“‘Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of the devils!’” Corey shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “‘Ye cannot be partakers of the Lord’s table, and of the table of devils!’”
Crying out his death song, the Pawnee fell forward onto the blade of his own knife. As he watched the rest of his people’s enemies flee wildly for the hills, Matthew noticed that old Arrow Keeper was looking at him.
Matthew met the old man’s eyes; and suddenly Arrow Keeper surprised him by doing something he had never seen him do—his leathery face eased into an ear-to-ear smile.
Chapter Seventeen
The unexpected victory tasted sweet to Yellow Bear’s long-suffering tribe. The Pawnee had been so thoroughly frightened that they retreated at full speed, not bothering to cover their flight with a running battle. Furthermore, most of them had thrown down weapons in their panic. The Cheyenne defenders were able to pick up rifles and shoot many of their enemies like prairie chickens as they fled.
For the most part, Yellow Bear’s people assumed that War Thunder had been killed in the confusion of battle by a stray ax or by a Cheyenne warrior who was later killed. Although War Thunder’s scalp had been badly split by an ax blade, it was hung in front of the council lodge on the same lodge pole carved with the secret and magic totems of the tribe. The Pawnee leader’s scalp and other spoils were dedicated to the Great Spirit during a special ceremony presided over by the headmen—the same ceremony in which Corey Robinson was hailed as the savior of the Shaiyena people.
The freckle-faced white boy was accorded the full honors of the tr
ibe. Even Black Elk, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, and other braves who hated the whites came to praise him. Arrow Keeper presented Corey with a specially notched and dyed blue feather which was traditionally given by the Cheyenne to friends outside the tribe. If Corey showed it to any Plains Indian, Arrow Keeper said, whether a Sioux, Arapaho, or Shoshone, the Indian would treat him as a brave and honored friend of the red man.
Corey was showered with so many gifts, he needed a packhorse to carry them back to Bighorn Falls. A special escort of warriors then rode with him back to the spot where he’d tethered his horse. When Corey was astride his horse, the Cheyenne accompanied him through Indian country until he was safe again.
Despite the fact that Corey’s heroic antics saved many in the tribe, losses were heavy among the warriors manning the rifle pits and breastworks, and once again the men cropped short their hair to honor their fallen comrades. When the women had sewn new moccasins for the long journey the dead were to make to the Land of Ghosts, a small group of braves silently headed to the secret forest where they erected scaffolds for the dead.
Shortly after the Cheyenne dead had been attended to, Yellow Bear called a special council. All junior warriors were instructed to attend alongside the full warriors and councilors. Matthew and Little Horse, however, were bitter with disappointment when Arrow Keeper informed them they were not invited. Soon after the council ended, Arrow Keeper searched out Matthew.
“It has been decided by the headmen,” the old man announced, “to salute you and Little Horse for your skill and bravery in slipping past the Pawnee. Another council will soon be held to honor both of you.”
Arrow Keeper’s words stunned Matthew. He was even more surprised when the medicine man added, “The headmen do not realize that we should also be honoring you for your skill in killing War Thunder. But I saw what you did, and I am proud. Many would have foolishly boasted to the rest about this deed. You wisely understood, however, that your enemies would try to use your claim as proof you are a liar.”
Despite his pride, Matthew held his face impassive like a seasoned warrior. Had he not defeated his enemies in battle? Did not a scalp dangle from his breechclout? A warrior showed no gratitude for compliments. After all, he knew in his heart he had earned them.
“Never forget,” Arrow Keeper said, “you still have many enemies in the tribe. It is true you helped save your people. But how did you accomplish this thing? Through white man’s cunning, not the Cheyenne way. Not until all witness your skill in battle will Yellow Bear’s people begin to accept you as one of their own.”
Matthew nodded once to show he saw the truth in his friend’s words.
“So it is,” Arrow Keeper said, “that I still cannot speak up for you. If I tried to convince the other warriors that you killed War Thunder, my praise would only further harden your enemies against you. Prepare yourself. The stones did not speak in unison. Many voted against honoring you, and they will surely speak up again at the council.”
Matthew nodded again, grateful for the elder’s confidence. When he started to leave, Arrow Keeper touched his shoulder.
“One thing more. At Medicine Lake, I did not tell you many things because I was not yet sure in my heart about you. I doubted the truth of a medicine dream until I could find proof that it was not a false vision. Now I have seen you return to fight when all thought you had fled like a rabbit. Now I know the dream placed true visions before my eyes. This thing makes an old man glad.
“Touch the Sky,” he said with great dignity, his tired eyes meeting the young Cheyenne’s curious glance, “place my words close to your heart, for now I speak only true things. In time you will learn more about yourself and your past. But for now, know that you are the son of a great Cheyenne chief. It is your destiny to find greatness just as your father did. However, even strong trees must bend in the wind. You will face many trials and much suffering before you raise high the lance of leadership.”
Although Matthew looked to Arrow Keeper for more information, the old man merely set his face in its usual unreadable mask of wrinkles.
On the day of the council, Matthew and Little Horse dressed in new moccasins and beaded leggings. Proudly, they wore the scalps they had taken from their vanquished white enemies. They arrived at the council lodge together. A place of honor had been reserved for them in the middle of the lodge, one on either side of Chief Yellow Bear. And unlike other councils, when the clay pipe was stuffed with the fragrant Kinnikinnick, it was passed to Matthew and Little Horse too. Despite their stern faces, both boys coughed when the strong smoke expanded in their lungs.
“Brothers!” Yellow Bear said finally. “You know well why we are assembled here this day. Two of our young men have made Yellow Bear proud. They have saved their people and filled the elders with hope for the future. With young men such as these, will the Shaiyena people not endure?”
Many of the headmen approved their leader’s question with nods and shouts of agreement. Matthew noticed, however, that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling scowled and his furtive eyes darted back and forth between the scalps on Matthew and Little Horse’s breechclouts.
“Fathers! Brothers!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, suddenly jumping to his feet. “Listen to my words even though I am younger than most of you. Perhaps it is true that Touch the Sky and Little Horse cleverly tricked the lice-eaters. But women are clever! Have we already forgotten the death of True Son? Remember, I saw Touch the Sky purposely wake a Pawnee. This is what led to True Son’s death.”
“Wolf Who Hunts Smiling barks loud, but his eyes run from mine because he knows he lies,” Matthew said. “It was he who woke the Pawnees.”
“I bark loud perhaps, but I do not take scalps off white dogs I find dead in the trail!”
For a long moment, the two enemies shared a murderous stare. Seeing the pure hatred burn in his enemy’s eyes, Matthew recalled that night Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had walked between him and the fire. Clearly he still intended to kill Matthew and was only watching for his opportunity.
“Fathers and brothers!” Black Elk said. “Hear me well.”
The young warrior’s shattered left shinbone had been wrapped and splinted. Until it could heal, he would walk with the aid of a stout hickory stick.
“During the battle in our camp,” Black Elk said, “Little Horse distinguished himself for all to see. His courage swelled my heart with manly pride. But where was How-Do-You-Do? True, once I saw him behind Little Horse at the front. Then I saw him flee back away from the fighting into camp with the women and children.”
A rush of warm blood prickled Matthew’s face. He glanced toward Arrow Keeper. But true to his word, the old man held his silence. He knew kind words would only strengthen Matthew’s enemies.
The council lodge was loud with the voices of the warriors and headmen discussing Black Elk’s charge. Then Chief Yellow Bear crossed his arms until there was silence.
“Pick these words up and place them in your sashes,” he said. “We have not come together here this day to talk against these young men. The tribe does not always speak with one voice regarding Touch the Sky. But do not forget that at a time when he and Little Horse might have run to safety, they came back into the belly of the beast. This was courage. This was the way of the warrior. This was the Shaiyena way!”
Three times Yellow Bear raised his red-streamered lance sharply over his head. Each time those assembled let loose a deafening shout of approval. Only Black Elk, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, Swift Canoe, and a few others refused to join the salutes.
That night, long after the council had broken up, Matthew headed down to the river for a cooling plunge. As he passed the hide-covered lodge where the women practiced domestic arts, the soft sound of someone calling his name startled him. As he stopped, a hand reached out and tugged him behind the corner of the lodge. There stood Honey Eater, looking like a pretty ghost figure in the silver moonlight.
“Like Arrow Keeper, I saw what you did on the day of the attack,” she said, spe
aking quickly before they could be caught. “I saw you save my father. But Arrow Keeper has warned me to remain silent.”
She cast her eyes modestly down before adding, “Arrow Keeper says I would not be believed. He says that my feelings for you are too clear in my eyes.”
Matthew was only inches away from her, and he could smell the fresh columbine petals in her hair, feel her warm breath on his bare chest.
“And what is your feeling for me?” he said.
For a long time she was silent. Without either of them noticing, they moved closer and closer together until they touched. Matthew knew that red men did not kiss their women, but he felt Honey Eater tremble when he placed his lips softly against her fragrant hair.
“We have seen each other naked,” she said finally. “But I no longer feel shame. I am glad that we have seen each other.”
The next moment she was gone, hurrying across the moonlit camp back toward the tipi she shared with Yellow Bear. But suddenly she stopped. When she turned back around toward the shadows where Matthew stood, she crossed her wrists and hugged them over her heart, signing her love, as was the Cheyenne tradition.
Matthew felt his heart swell. But as he stepped out from behind the lodge, a shadowy form escaped through the flap of the doorway, and he realized someone had been listening and watching them. The shadow limped into the moonlight, and he recognized Black Elk. The grizzled hunk of the warrior’s sewn-on ear looked like wrinkled leather in the dim light.
“Enjoy your triumph, Woman Face!” Black Elk said with cold contempt. “From the beginning you have plotted like a fox to earn Arrow Keeper’s favor and win Honey Eater from me. But have ears for my words. Black Elk gives up nothing that is his without a fight to the death!”
His threat delivered, the young warrior limped off. But his words ignited a quick anger in Matthew, reminding him that, despite the rousing cheers in the council lodge, he was still far from being fully accepted by the tribe. In the eyes of the other Cheyenne, he was still a suspicious stranger, still an untested warrior. Nor could he forget Arrow Keeper’s warning that he would face many trials and much suffering.
