Comanche Raid (A Cheyenne Western--Book Six)

by Judd Cole

  The rest of the hunters exchanged troubled, embarrassed glances. The hunt celebration had been on their minds until this. Only a few times in their memories had the hunt soldiers been forced to discipline a brave for a violation this serious. This Touch the Sky, he was a straight enough warrior. But how did he always manage to be where trouble was?

  “Brothers!” Black Elk called out. “This could ruin the rest of the hunt! Our kill today was good, but we need much more meat for the cold moons. His presence may have put the stink upon us so the herds will smell us every time.”

  “This trail is taking a wrong turn,” Little Horse said. “Lone Bear says I jabber on like a woman, but have I not slain our enemies and counted coup like a man? When did Little Horse ever hide behind a better fighter? I say Touch the Sky speaks straight-arrow. He did not chase the buffalo over the cliff. They led him toward it.”

  “True it is that Little Horse can fight. But everyone knows,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said scornfully, “that he is quick to play the dog for this white man wrapped in a Cheyenne skin. My cousin Black Elk, our war leader, is right. The stink is on him, he will scatter the herds!”

  The blood of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was up now. He harbored great ambitions for tribal leadership. The others were listening respectfully to his words, which lent them a fiery eloquence.

  “Red brothers! Only think on this thing. Brother Buffalo knows it is the white men who are exterminating him, not the Indian. And this make-believe Cheyenne carries the white smell on him.

  “Brothers, have you never caught a skunks spray direct on your clout or leggings? It never washes out. The same with the white man’s stink. Black Elk has taught this one the warrior ways, and he does not lack courage. But he is a white man at heart, and his face will soon show his feelings for all to see.”

  As he finished speaking he cracked his knotted rawhide whip to emphasize his point. This oration stirred several others to approving nods.

  “You puff yourself up like the white fools who jump on stumps to speak,” Touch the Sky said defiantly. “Like their lies, yours are worth no more than a pig s afterbirth.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s sneer twisted into a snarl of rage. He raised his whip to strike, but Little Horse deftly swung his lance out to stop it. The gesture was useless, however, because Lone Bear now spoke up again.

  “Enough of this quarreling! Are we women in their sewing lodge? The Hunt Law is clear on these matters. Now the whips will speak with much sharper tongues.”

  Lone Bear nodded once. The Bull Whips prepared to set upon Touch the Sky.

  “Warriors! Hear my words!”

  The speaker was Spotted Tail, leader of the Bowstrings.

  “In the Bowstrings we require more proof than the word of one witness, an enemy of the accused man at that. Recall, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling now speaks against Touch the Sky after openly walking between him and the camp fire! Do we trust a witness who has thus threatened to kill the very buck he now accuses?”

  Black Elk, sparks snapping in his fierce dark eyes, whirled toward the Bowstring leader.

  “You have called my cousin a liar. Very well. Do you also call me a liar?”

  Spotted Tail bit back his words. He was no coward, but Black Elk was certainly no warrior to provoke when he was keen for a fight as he clearly was now. Getting killed, Spotted Tail told himself, would not help Touch the Sky.

  Thus seeing which way the wind must set for now, Spotted Tail called out, “Bowstrings! If you honor justice, turn your ponies!”

  As one, the soldiers of the Bowstring troop joined their leader in turning their ponies around. By turning their backs, they protested the Bull Whip’s actions; by remaining, they supported Cheyenne law. Several other hunters belonging to neither of the troops also joined the Bowstrings in turning their backs.

  Touch the Sky refused to flinch back when the Bull Whips advanced upon him, Black Elk and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling riding at the head of the pack behind Lone Bear. It was the usual custom for the troop leader to strike the first blow. But now Lone Bear nudged his pony to one side, letting the other two advance first.

  Black Elk and his younger cousin exchanged a quick glance. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling nodded slightly, also dropping back. Black Elk rode forward, turned his pony, and raised his whip. His hate-glazed eyes met Touch the Sky’s, and his words proved it was Honey Eater on his mind, not violations of Hunt Law.

  “You squaw-stealing dog,” he said in a voice meant just for Touch the Sky’s ears. “Your hot blood will cool once it drips into the Plains!”

  The corded muscles of his shoulders bunched tightly as he lashed out savagely with the knotted rawhide, expertly cracking it across Touch the Sky’s chest and ripping open a burning line of flesh. The incredible pain jolted Touch the Sky, but though he winced he refused to cry out or show the pain in his face.

  Again and again Black Elk brought his whip down, ripping, tearing, opening up lacerations all over Touch the Sky s body. Only when Black Elk’s arm began to tire did the rest set upon him.

  Now, despite all his efforts, Touch the Sky was driven to his knees by the sheer force of the pain. Little Horse made as if to leap from his pony, but the braves on either side restrained him.

  The whips hissed and cracked, and Touch the Sky’s blood flowed in scarlet ribbons into the ground. Every nerve ending in his body seemed to have been stripped raw and held up to a flame. But though he was on the ground now, he refused to cry out or show anything but defiance in his face.

  “Cry, Woman Face!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling taunted him, breathing heavily from his exertions with the whip. “Twist up your face like the newborns do and make your chin quiver!”

  A moment later Wolf Who Hunts Smiling leaped back in rage when Touch the Sky hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into his face. This made Wolf Who Hunts Smiling strike even harder, but Touch the Sky still refused to cry out— even though now he was so bloody the soil clung to him like brown bark.

  In a fury of sudden strength, Little Horse broke free of the braves restraining him and leaped from his pony. Screaming the war cry, he waded among the flailing whips, catching them, tangling them, jerking one from its owner s hand, taking the lashes meant for his friend. One hand flew to his beaded sheath and removed his knife.

  “Hold! The first Bull Whip who comes close enough dies a hard death!”

  The Bull Whip soldiers stopped, looking to Lone Bear for their instructions. Lone Bear considered carefully. He knew that his troop was not eager to flog Little Horse—a brave honored in council for his fighting courage when he had only fifteen winters behind him. Yet the leader of the Bull Whips was no man to trifle with.

  “Black Elk!” he called out. “What do you counsel?”

  Black Elk’s blood was still up from the beating. Now his nostrils flared wide with his hard breathing.

  “Little Horse is too much influenced by Touch the Sky. But he is a warrior unlikely to die in his sleep.”

  “I have seen him fight like five men,” another Bull Whip said.

  “Brothers! These things are straight enough,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said. “But only think on this! He plays the dog for one who openly drinks strong water with the hair faces, one who leaves messages in the forks of trees for Bluecoat soldier chiefs. I have not forgotten the sight when Bluecoat canister shot butchered my father as surely as our women will soon butcher these buffalo! Now Little Horse has brazenly defied Cheyenne law by interfering with a soldier troop! Whip him too!”

  Lone Bear nodded slowly, still considering how to handle this thing. He was not known for fairness, and now he was leaning toward Wolf Who Hunts Smiling s suggestion.

  Now Spotted Tail too spoke up.

  “Dismiss your troop, Lone Bear, or I swear I’ll go to the Star Chamber!”

  This was the final Cheyenne court of appeal, made up of six Headmen whose identities were known only to Chief Gray Thunder. They met in secret at the emergency request of respected war leaders. Their judgments o
utranked any others.

  Lone Bear did not fear such an action. But it was clear that his men, with the exception of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, were not eager to draw more blood from either Cheyenne.

  “The punishment is terminated,” he announced. “As for Little Horse, I have ears for those who plead his case. He will not be held in violation of the Hunt Law. But he and all others must remember—the law is strict on this point, that none may assist Touch the Sky. He has set himself outside of the tribe by his actions. Now he must suffer alone.”

  The braves were beginning to scatter when Touch the Sky’s voice rang out. It was weak, strained from the injuries he’d received. But the words were clear enough even though spoken past bloodied, cut, and swollen lips.

  “Wolf Who Hunts Smiling! After I saved you from the Pawnee, you vowed never to attempt to kill me again. But I would respect you more for killing me than for this cowardly sport! And so I warn you, best to kill me now, buck, or I will turn your guts into worm fodder.”

  Now Touch the Sky looked at Black Elk.

  “And you, war leader! I used to call you my better. No more. Never mind what you have done here today to me! A man who would hit a woman, especially when she has done nothing to merit it, is merely a killer, not a true warrior.

  “You once had honor, and I respected you for that. You no longer have it. And I warn you as I just warned your cousin, best to kill me now and have done with it. For truly I speak only one way, and I say this for all to know now. My father was a greater Cheyenne warrior than any man’s here, and on his honor I swear it, both of you will pay for this.”

  A surprised silence greeted this announcement. This was the first time anyone, besides Arrow Keeper, had known anything about this supposed warrior father.

  Black Elk, however, was enraged that this meddling squaw-stealer had publicly talked about his disciplining of his own wife!

  “My father,” he said, making the cutoff sign as one did when speaking of the dead, “died the glorious death at Wolf Creek. But only after he had smeared enemy blood over his entire body.”

  “And my father,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, “was killed by the paleface devils whose ways are in your blood.”

  “Both of us,” Black Elk said, “have their weapons, their war bonnets, their enemy scalps on our lodgepoles. Can you produce these things that once belonged to your famous warrior father?”

  This was greeted with laughter from the others. Soon everyone was mounting.

  Touch the Sky spoke his final words on this matter. Little Horse could not believe his friend was still conscious after all this blood loss.

  “I am not a sweet-talking Ponca who forgives his enemies. I tell you again, Black Elk and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. Kill me now or sing the death song because I am for you!”

  Chapter Eight

  While Touch the Sky lay helpless, the women and children moved the hunt camp to the dead buffalo. It was their job to do the bloody skinning and butchering.

  The new temporary camp was a festive and noisy place. Hunters called out to each other, bragging, congratulating each other, acting out scenes from their kills. The women and children, lugging empty travois, were led to the animals killed by hunters in their clan.

  The hides were stripped from head to buttocks. Then they were staked out flat to dry. Knives and stone chisels were used to scrape off every last bit of fat or flesh. Later, back at their permanent summer camp, the hides would be smoked over sweet grass to take out the smell.

  The butchering was a bloody mess, and soon all the women, Honey Eater included, were covered with sticky blood from their hair to their moccasins. Drying racks had already been made out of mesquite branches. The women sliced most of the meat as thin as paper. Hung on the racks, it would be quickly dried by the Southwest sun and wind. It would remain edible for many moons.

  Nothing was wasted. Other parts were set aside for the feast tonight at the dance of thanks for the good hunt. Blood and brains would be boiled together with rose hips to provide a true delicacy; the delicious tongues would be roasted so tender they would fall apart without chewing; the curdled, partially digested milk in the stomachs of the young buffalo calves was a treat many Indians dreamed about during the cold moons.

  Everything they weren’t consuming tonight would be piled onto the travois. Bones would yield tasty marrow; the horns of the bulls would provide cups; ropes and belts would be woven from the hair. Guts would soon string new bows; the kidney fat was stored in clay jars for cooking.

  When the main job of butchering was finished, the hunt distribution was held.

  This ancient Cheyenne custom ensured that sufficient fresh meat and delicacies would go to the elders and the poorest members of the tribe. The women of each clan had started a pile in a conspicuous place, contributing some of their clan’s kill. When Chief Gray Thunder saw the pile, he ordered the soldier chiefs to take charge of the distribution.

  Those who needed meat were already on hand. The soldiers set the meat up in equal piles. Then Spotted Tail of the Bowstrings selected River of Winds, known for his fair dealing, to inspect each pile and make sure they were equal. Then River of Winds made sure that no one was overlooked.

  The soldiers were forced to turn away a woman from Swift Canoe s Wolverine Clan, though she protested loudly—she had already sent her daughter for a ration of meat, hiding it and getting in line herself.

  Only after the soldiers reported the distribution complete did Gray Thunder order the dance of thanks to begin. Tonight they would feast; soon, when the meat was dried, they would move on after the herds. At least one more good kill was needed to see them through the cold moons.

  Little Horse, like all the hunters, celebrated with his clan. But constantly he worried about Touch the Sky. However, the Bull Whips were making sure that no one went anywhere near the hunt transgressor. Hunt Law was strict on this point. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling especially kept his furtive, mocking eyes on Little Horse, daring him to violate the Hunt Law by helping his friend.

  While the rest gorged themselves on fresh buffalo meat, many eating until they vomited, then eating more, Little Horse thought again with wonder of the thing Touch the Sky had claimed— that he was the son of a great Cheyenne warrior. This was the first Little Horse had heard of such a thing. He knew his friend too well by now to ever doubt his word.

  Besides, Little Horse had glimpsed the mulberry-colored birthmark just past Touch the Sky’s hairline, the perfect arrowhead shape. The traditional symbol of the warrior.

  Earlier, Honey Eater had been clearly distraught when the women and children had been brought up to the site of the kill and she had realized Touch the Sky was not among the hunters. Little Horse, knowing he had to get word to her before she spotted the injured brave and rushed to him, took a great risk. He managed to get her aside for a moment, without being spotted by Black Elk, and explain the situation.

  “How badly is he hurt?” she asked, alarm tightening her voice. She was kneeling over a hide, scraping fat away from it with a sharp-pointed stone chisel.

  Little Horse, glancing around again to make sure Black Elk wasn’t near, said, “He has been badly beaten, but he is strong. He has endured greater pain than this. He will survive. But it will be some time before he is able to move on his own.”

  “And Black Elk?” she said, her dark eyes snapping sparks. “Did he play the leader in this too?”

  Little Horse glanced away, his silence answering her question for her.

  “You say he has endured greater pain than this,” Honey Eater said bitterly. “You speak true. Pain is all he has known since he joined our tribe. I am glad you are his friend, Little Horse.”

  “I am his friend until death, sister. But I can do nothing for him now.”

  Even covered head to toe with blood, her hair a ragged mass where Black Elk had cut her braid off, Honey Eater was pretty. Little Horse thought again how natural it was that Touch the Sky would love her and she him. But the Cheyenne law-ways h
ad forced her into a loveless marriage. And now Black Elk was making both of them suffer for their love.

  They could risk no further conversation. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was already riding over to see what was happening. Little Horse turned to leave. But Honey Eater called out his name. He turned back around.

  Keeping her head down, continuing to scrape away at the staked-out hide, she said, “You know that I love him?”

  “Yes. And I know that he loves you.” “Please do not let his enemies kill him!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was almost upon them now, his knotted-thong whip cracking.

  “If they do kill him,” Little Horse vowed just before he left, “I swear by the four directions of the wind that my blood will run with his.”

  ~*~

  Touch the Sky lay where he had fallen beaten, unable to move, an outcast until he could ride on his own to camp. His weapons had been left alone, and his obedient pony grazed nearby without benefit of a tether.

  For a long time—while his sister the sun slid across the sky—he lay dazed. His body alternated between dull throbbing and fiery pain. Awareness had become a narrow place surrounded by patches of dense fog. His mind passed from fog to clarity and back in an endless pattern. The skinning and butchering and feasting had gone on nearby with all the usual clamor. But to him it was all a dream, a thing of smoke.

  His uncle the moon took over the sky, the long night passed, and the tribe moved out just after sunup of the new day. But Touch the Sky lay in utter exhaustion caused from enduring massive pain. However, even though the pain lanced deep into his flesh, his mind was freed as it had been on the Spirit Path at Medicine Lake. And once again images from his past were sprung from memory.

  He glimpsed the unshaven, long-jawed face of Hiram Steele’s wrangler Boone Wilson, again saw him unsheathing his Bowie knife while Steele’s daughter Kristen screamed. He flexed another memory muscle, and now he saw the smug, overbearing sneer of Seth Carlson, the Blue-coat lieutenant who had helped Steele destroy the Hanchons’ mercantile business.