Comanche Raid (A Cheyenne Western--Book Six)

by Judd Cole

  One pony, ridden by a Comanche on a captured cavalry saddle, quickly struggled back up and bolted off to the right. The rider was trapped with one foot twisted in the stirrup. The panicked mount raced directly through a patch of sturdy, sharp-needled prickly-pear cactus, dragging the rider behind. The Comanche’s screams were hideous as the needles turned him into a raw, red, glistening mess, literally skinning him alive.

  His screaming death agony finally unnerved the attackers. Stopping only long enough to let their brothers whose horses had been shot leap up behind them, they retreated.

  A triumphant victory cry rose from the young warriors in the rifle pits, and was taken up by the noncombatants huddled behind the breastworks.

  But Touch the Sky, though elated by this temporary victory, was not lulled into a sense of security. Of all the tribes whose treachery could not be predicted, Arrow Keeper had often told him, the Kiowa and Comanche were the most dangerous.

  There was no time for a celebration. This was only half of the combined enemy force. And only one had died here today. This was their homeland, and fresh remounts would not be far off.

  Another attack, a far bigger one, would soon be coming.

  ~*~

  Touch the Sky, assisted by Two Twists, supervised the move as the camp was once again dismantled to join the hunters. He had no idea when the next attack was coming. But he feared it would be soon. Although the strict Hunt Law required the camp to wait until it was summoned, the delay couldn’t be risked.

  Tipi covers and poles, cooking utensils, drying racks, and other possessions were lashed to tra-vois along with the dried meat and other parts of the buffalo already killed. Thus weighted down, the camp could not make such good time as the. unencumbered hunters had. As always, flankers were sent out, selected from the junior warriors, as well as a guard to ride behind in case the attacking band should decide on an immediate second strike.

  Touch the Sky’s numerous cuts had finally scabbed over, a dull itching replacing the burning pain. Still, he was nearly exhausted from the ordeal of his beating and the all-night ride to warn the camp in time. Only the thought that Honey Eater and the rest depended on him kept him going. So far, not one drop of Cheyenne blood had been spilled. It was his responsibility, as the only full warrior in the group, to make sure that none was.

  He was proud of Two Twists and his warriors. The youths had played their parts well, had followed orders exactly. So he wisely held silent now as they puffed themselves up with pride, boasting to each other as warriors will do. Around the women and children, however, they showed the taciturn reserve of the older Cheyenne braves— after all, had they not fired upon an enemy in battle? It was no longer acceptable to act like children.

  And they looked toward Touch the Sky with a new respect in their eyes. Each of them had watched him stand and hold in an uncovered position while enemy arrows and bullets rained down upon him. The elders and the women smiled shyly each time he met their eyes, admiration clear in their manner. Touch the Sky did not know it yet, but the same old squaw of the Sky Walker Clan who had sung the song about his love for Honey Eater was already composing another about his bravery this day. Soon it too would be sung in the clan circles and lodges and become part of the history of the Cheyenne people.

  But wisely, Touch the Sky now kept his distance from Honey Eater as they rode. The two could not be near each other without showing their powerful love. And despite Touch the Sky’s bravery, Black Elk’s friends and informers were numerous.

  The sun was a flaming red ball balanced on the western horizon by the time they reached the spot where the hunters had congregated. The hunters spotted them as they emerged over a long ridge. The herd could be seen far below in a grassy valley of the Red River. Clearly the kill had not yet taken place. No doubt, thought Touch the Sky, it was planned for sunrise.

  Although they were approaching against the wind, Touch the Sky halted his column well back from the hunters and waited for a delegation to approach.

  Their faces incredulous at this clear violation of Hunt Law, the Bull Whips raced out ahead of Chief Gray Thunder and Arrow Keeper. They were led by Lone Bear and Black Elk, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling close on their heels.

  “You!” Lone Bear said. “What is the meaning of this outrage? You know full well the people must be left behind until after the kill or the herd may be scared off.”

  Touch the Sky was about to speak when Two Twists rode boldly forward.

  “Fathers! I am young, but today I fought in my first battle. Please have ears for my words. Touch the Sky has the courage of ten warriors! This day he saved Gray Thunder’s tribe from a terrible tragedy.”

  Clearly, emboldened by his part in the fight, Two Twists narrated the events of the attack. Gray Thunder and Arrow Keeper rode up as he told the story and listened attentively. Some of the women and elders crowded closer as Two Twists spoke, nodding excitedly. “Yes, this is surely true!” they said, or, “Yes, I saw him do that!”

  By the time Two Twists finished and fell silent, Gray Thunder was staring at Touch the Sky with respect clear in his eyes. Old Arrow Keeper too gazed at the youth fondly, nodding his head as if this were to be expected from a youth who carried the mark of the warrior on his scalp. Little Horse, his face proud, glanced around at the others as if to say: Do you mark this? This is my brother, the warrior!

  Black Elk, Lone Bear, and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, however, exchanged troubled glances.

  “Father,” Touch the Sky said to Gray Thunder, “I took it upon myself to move the camp early because I am convinced our enemies plan another strike, a bigger strike with many more warriors. It is only a matter of time.”

  Gray Thunder nodded. “You were right to do so. Now the chief glanced with disapproval at Lone Bear and Black Elk. “It was the responsibility of our soldier societies and our battle chief to make sure our women and children and elders were better protected. Fortunately, our young calves turned into raging bulls under Touch the Sky’s brave example.”

  Lone Bear, Black Elk, and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling chaffed under this criticism.

  “But Father!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling protested. “Touch the Sky ruined the first hunt. He has the stink on him. He should leave before the herds smell him.”

  “He will stay,” Gray Thunder said firmly, brooking no argument. “Every instinct now tells me he was unfairly accused and whipped. I know that Hunt Law leaves this matter up to Lone Bear and Spotted Tail,, leaders of the soldier troops who police the hunts. But I swear by my medicine bundle, I will convene the Star Chamber and override them if they fight me on this point!”

  Neither troop leader spoke up to object. A Cheyenne chief could not dictate to his people— he was the voice of the tribe, not its will. But Gray Thunder was still, in his fortieth winter, a vigorous warrior and highly respected for the eagle feathers in his war bonnet.

  “We will post guards all about,” the chief continued, “and we will renew the Medicine Arrows for battle just in case Touch the Sky is right and the attack is coming. But tomorrow the hunt goes on as we planned. It is too important to our tribe. Shaman!”

  He turned to Arrow Keeper.

  “Prepare the Sacred Arrows. Tonight the warriors will make their offerings. Then, tomorrow, they will paint and dress before the kill. Thus we will be ready if the attack comes to us.”

  Gray Thunder looked at Two Twists, a smile touching his stern features. “And tomorrow, Two Twists and the junior warriors who saved our people will ride in the hunt with the blooded warriors.”

  A cheer rose from the warriors-in-training. But Touch the Sky watched Black Elk and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling exchange a long, conspiratorial look, and he knew that more trouble was in the wind.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hairy Wolf finished smoking and laid the long clay pipe on the ground between himself and Iron Eyes. This signified that he was now ready to speak.

  “They shot my best pony out from under me,” he said with bitter humiliation. “All o
f our warriors witnessed it. Those were children who made a brave warrior, a member of the Kaitsenko, show the white feather and flee! Am I a Kiowa, or a cowardly Ponca who grows gardens and preaches peace?”

  He and Iron Eyes sat apart from the rest of their band, faces grim and hatchet-sharp in profile in the flickering orange flames of a small camp fire.

  “I hear this, Kaitsenko,” Iron Eyes said. “When they first drove us Comanches to this land, there were no buffalo herds here. The hair mouths had not yet diverted the herds south. We were finally forced to kill and eat our dogs, then our ponies. This thing today, it will not stand.”

  “It will not,” Hairy Wolf agreed. “The runners report that our braves who were delayed capturing their ponies will soon arrive. And I have already sent a loaded pipe to He Bear and his band. Count upon it, he will respond quickly. No man alive has more reason to hate the Shaiyena than He Bear. True it is, we will be forced to split with him the goods we receive from the slave sale. But the price is well worth it.”

  Just south of their present camp lived the Kiowa Apaches, close kin to the Kiowa, under their war leader He Bear. Each fall, during the Deer-rutting Moon, various tribes of the Southern Plains assembled in conclave at Medicine Lodge Creek in the heartland of the Kiowas. Almost all of these tribes had been driven from the north by combined Cheyenne-Sioux might. Thus the Cheyennes had become their hereditary enemies.

  “This year,” Hairy Wolf said, “at Medicine Lodge Creek, He Bear complained bitterly about Cheyennes raiding on his pony herds. But his band is too small to attack in revenge. This will be a perfect chance to exact blood justice against them. Our three tribes will raise our battle-axes as one.”

  All evening both leaders had carefully avoided mentioning a certain name which was much on their minds. The Comanche killed in that prickly pear patch had been Painted Lips, one of the favorites of both bands. But by Comanche custom, a warrior whose body had not been recovered could never be mentioned again.

  “Yes,” Iron Eyes said, “we will attack as one. I like this. It is worth surrendering some of our profits from the slaves. Because now we can do more than simply sneak up and steal women and children—we will also annihilate their warriors!”

  ~*~

  “Brother,” Little Horse said, “I am proud of you. Do you know that old Sweet Medicine of the Sky Walker Clan has composed a song honoring your bravery? All of the young warriors are singing your praise, telling how a lone Cheyenne brave stood before an entire band of Kiowa and Comanches and never once flinched at their arrows and bullets.”

  “I flinched, brother,” Touch the Sky said, though indeed he was proud to hear such words from Little Horse, his best friend and the warrior he admired most in his tribe. “It was our tribe behind me which held me fast, not my contempt for death.”

  “I have no ears for this. But bend words anyway you wish. Deeds hold only one shape, and your deeds today have the shape of courage. My young sisters and brothers were among those children, my uncles and aunts and grandparents among the elders. We are warriors, and I will not embarrass you by dwelling upon this thing longer. So brother, I say it once and then put it away: You are the bravest warrior I know, and I thank you with my life.”

  Touch the Sky might have reminded Little Horse that, more than once, the sturdy young brave had placed his life on the line to save him, had stuck by him when very few others in the tribe besides Arrow Keeper or Honey Eater cared if he lived or died. But it was not the Cheyenne way to dwell on such things. Both youths knew, without words, that anyone who meant to kill one of them would have to kill both.

  The camp had been reestablished well below the long ridge which separated them from the herd below. The buffalo were content to graze the lush bunchgrass of the river valley. The wind continued steadily to blow from the west, posing no threat of carrying their human smell to the buffalos and scattering the animals before the strike tomorrow.

  Little Horse had killed a plump rabbit and dressed it out, and now they were building a fire to cook it. Touch the Sky, finally able to move without wincing at the pain, squatted to build a small bed of punk or dried, decayed wood. When it was finished he removed the flint and steel from the chamois pouch on his sash. A slicing blow with the steel against the small piece of flint sent a shower of sparks downward. The heat of the sparks soon caused some of the fine fibers of punk to smolder.

  Carefully, Touch the Sky blew on the punk until he had coaxed it into flames. Then he piled on more substantial materials—dry wood shavings, fine splinters of wood, dry leaves and grass, then small sticks—to kindle a bigger fire.

  “Word of what you did,” Little Horse said, “has flown through the camp. Now there is much remorse over the beating you suffered. Even some of the Bull Whips who flogged you now say they did wrong. But when you whirl the water in the pool, you also stir up the mud. Your enemies are speaking against you. Keep your back to a tree.”

  Little Horse used the same arrow which had killed the rabbit as a spit, skewering it from throat to rump. He jabbed two forked sticks into the ground on both sides of the fire and placed the rabbit over the growing flames.

  “Black Elk, Swift Canoe, and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling have put their heads together again. They are going among the Bull Whips, saying that once again you used white man’s tactics, not the Cheyenne way. They tell all who will listen— and many still do—that you employ tricks learned from the blue-dressed soldiers who take our best hunting grounds.

  “Just now, as I crossed camp, I heard Wolf Who Hunts Smiling speaking to his fawning admirers. ‘Every time this make-believe Cheyenne earns the praise of the Headmen,” he told them, ‘it is by some cunning piece of paleface trickery—where is the Cheyenne in him?’ “

  “All in good time,” Touch the Sky said, “Wolf Who Hunts Smiling will die the dog’s death he deserves. I am loathe to sully the Arrows by killing a Cheyenne. Only this has kept me from spilling his blood out onto the ground. But the reckoning is coming.”

  “Something is afoot,” Little Horse said. “Count on it. They are determined to keep you from the hunt tomorrow.”

  Touch the Sky nodded. Later this night he would assist Arrow Keeper in the Renewal of the Sacred Arrows, an important rite before possible battle. And the “hidden eye” which Arrow Keeper was teaching him to develop as a shaman already told him there would be trouble during the ceremony.

  ~*~

  Black Elk had noticed Honey Eaters sullen silence ever since she had arrived with the rest. He knew it was because she had seen the marks of the beating he and the other Bull Whips had inflicted on Touch the Sky.

  Her silence infuriated him. What right did a squaw have to approve or disapprove of a war leader s actions? Though she was careful to avoid any open flaunting of her love for the tall youth, it was there for all to see.

  Back at the permanent camp, he had passed the entrance of the women’s sewing lodge and heard them at their song. And although it mentioned no names, it was clear enough whose love they sang about. Now the tribe was singing another song about Touch the Sky’s bravery—as if no other warrior could violate Hunt Law and lead women and children around.

  Now, as she served him a juicy hump steak on a thick piece of bark, he said, “I would speak with you.”

  Honey Eater had already turned away and started to leave. She stopped, waiting.

  “Look at your husband!” he commanded her. “Your war leader is speaking!”

  She finally turned, but kept her eyes cast downward.

  “Honey Eater, I do not like your manner with me.”

  “What would you have of me?”

  “I would have you remember that I am your husband!”

  “Truly,” she said bitterly, “I cannot forget this.”

  He suddenly threw the steak down on the ground. His breathing grew so fierce with anger that his nostrils flared.

  “You will not take this tone with me! I could have had my pick of any woman in the tribe.”

  Honey
Eater feared Black Elk’s rage. But ever since seeing what he and the other Bull Whips had done to Touch the Sky, her own anger was deep and strong. Now she could not bite back her words as she usually did.

  “Would that you had picked another! If you are not satisfied with the wife you have, you may sing the Throw-away Song and divorce me on the drum. I will shed no tears.”

  “No, you would not, for you are too eager to rut with your tall white man’s dog! You call yourself a Cheyenne maiden? Where is your virtue, your modesty?”

  “They are in the same place where you left behind your manly courage and fairness!”

  Rage actually paralyzed him for a moment. “What do you mean by these words?” he demanded.

  “I mean that I have seen what you, your hateful cousin Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, and the other ‘courageous’ Bull Whips have done to Touch the Sky.”

  “You she-bitch, hold your tongue! We have done what men will do when the Hunt Law must be upheld. I do not quarrel with women! What right have you to question the actions of men?”

  “I have eyes to see, ears to hear. And I do not think these were the actions of men, but the actions of cowards!”

  This was incredible. Black Elk was so shocked at her insolence that he merely stared at her, his mouth gaping. The dancing firelight failed to soften his stern features, his fierce black eyes, the leathery hunk of dead ear he had sewn back on himself with buckskin thread after a Bluecoat saber had severed it in battle.

  “You bitch in heat! You will not give your war leader a son, but you will pine away for him, a white man’s dog who arrived among us wearing shoes and offering his hand to shake like the blue-bloused liars who shake our hands before they kill us! You hope that I will divorce you on the drum. But I swear by the sun, the moon, and the directions of the wind that I will take you out on the Plains if you do not learn to be a good Cheyenne wife!”

  Now it was Honey Eater’s turn to fill with hot rage. “Taking a woman out on the Plains” was the most severe punishment a Cheyenne man could inflict on a wife, and could not be done without clear proof that she had lain with another man. It had never, to her knowledge, been done in their tribe, though she had heard stories of it in other tribes. The man deserted his wife out in the wilderness and announced that she was available to any man in the tribe who wanted to rut on her. Though the woman was not banished, her shame afterward was so great that she was expected to kill herself. In reality, a man who did such a thing, no matter for what cause, could never be respected again.