by Judd Cole
At a signal from Arrow Keeper, Touch the Sky stepped behind the stump. He scattered rich tobacco as an offering to the four directions, the sun, and the moon. Then, his face solemn with pride, he carefully unwrapped the four Sacred Arrows.
An absolute hush fell over the entire gathering. Not even a child coughed. One by one, the noncombatants filed by for a rare peek at the prize which old Arrow Keeper had sworn to protect with his life. Touch the Sky had lain two of them horizontally, the other two across them vertically. They were striped in bright’ blue and yellow, tipped with chipped stone, fletched with scarlet-dyed feathers.
After the rest had glimpsed the Arrows which must be kept forever sweet and clean, Arrow Keeper called out to the warriors to offer their gifts to the Arrows.
Valuable items were soon heaped before the stump as, one by one, the braves filed by: new bows, a handsome parfleche with intricate beadwork, a fine tow wallet, enemy scalps, wool blankets, clay pipes, brand-new moccasins and leggings, a lace shawl, a leather shirt, a fox skin quiver, an obsidian knife with moonstones laid into its bone handle. It cost Touch the Sky extra effort not to smile when Two Twists and the warriors-in-training filed by last, their faces sternly proud at this important rite of passage to manhood.
When the last gift was piled on the heap, Arrow Keeper declared the Arrows renewed and chanted the closing prayer. But before the people could scatter to their clan circles, old Calf Woman boldly stepped into the flickering circle of the firelight and made a startling announcement.
“Hear an old woman’s words! I have had an important vision concerning the tribe.”
~*~
The first reaction was one of collective shock. Cheyenne women never put themselves forward in tribal ceremonies. But a vision was an important thing, and Calf Woman was said to possess the gift of visions.
Everyone, including Chief Gray Thunder, looked to Arrow Keeper.
“Speak this thing you have seen,” Arrow Keeper told her.
“There is to be a battle soon,” she said. “Very soon, before the hunt is over. We have just renewed the Arrows. So, it is good. But in my vision, there was blood on the Sacred Arrows.”
A low murmur erupted. Blood on the Arrows meant blood on the tribe. Much blood.
“This blood,” she continued, “was caused by a reckless youth who violated the sacred Hunt Law. The Great Medicine Man is angry, the buffalo are angry. The generous gifts of Maiyun were carelessly squandered when buffalo were sent over a cliff to die. Now many, many Cheyenne people must die to atone—not just our warriors, but our women and children and the old ones.”
Her words struck Touch the Sky with the force of a battle lance. Every head turned to stare at him. Warm blood crept up the back of his neck and into his face. He knew Calf Woman on sight, of course, but had never spoken to her—though her Root Eaters Clan was well respected. Clearly, however, she could be talking of no one else but him.
Arrow Keeper was troubled. Frowning, he said, “Calf Woman, are you sure this thing was a vision and not just odjib, a thing of smoke? You have seen many winters, and sometimes a weary mind may confuse a dream in the little day with the Spirit Path.”
“It was a medicine dream, shaman,” she insisted, “not a dream in the little day. It came upon me in full waking hours, all at once, and was over in a heartbeat.”
This testimony drew more troubled murmuring from the others. Indeed, this was the way visions came unless they were deliberately sought.
Now Chief Gray Thunder interceded.
“Old Grandmother, I was there at Beaver Creek when your son Half Bear fell to a Pawnee battle-ax. Long now have you served the tribe and taught our young women the beadwork which makes our tribe the envy of the Plains. You are a good woman. But in the hoary years, a mind may slip its tether occasionally. Are you sure of this thing?”
“I am sure, Gray Thunder. And as penance for this violation of Hunt Law, Maiyun told me, the errant youth must set up a pole to ward off this disaster.”
More talk erupted from the people. Chief Gray Thunder folded his arms until all had quieted. “Setting up a pole” was a harsh voluntary penance which could expiate a sin against the Arrows. It could not be ordered; the transgressor must agree on his own to do it. The grueling ordeal consisted of setting up a pole on a hill and hanging from it for the better part of a day by bone hooks driven through the chest muscles.
Now Arrow Keeper was deeply troubled. The Cheyenne faith in vision compulsion was deep and strong. He knew that this faith was sometimes abused—murderers had avoided banishment, for example, by claiming that Maiyun ordered them in a vision to kill.
On the other hand, the law of the Vision Way was clear: If Maiyun did truly speak to a mortal in a vision, His voice could not be ignored. The price for ignoring his command was death or insanity. And in this case, an entire tribe was being compelled to an action—failure to do as told might thus mean the destruction of the entire tribe.
Arrow Keeper was fully aware of the deceit Touch the Sky’s enemies were capable of. This might well be a ruse, and the youth had already suffered greatly from the unjust whipping. But was it worth risking the entire tribe to find out if the old grandmother spoke straight-arrow?
“Fathers! Brothers!” Little Horse said. “This thing would be scanned! I too respect Calf Woman and her clan. But the frosted years are upon her, and this time I do not believe she has truth firmly by the tail!”
“You would speak up for your friend,” Black Elk said, “no matter what the outcome for your tribe. When he left his tribe to fight for the whites, you went with him then too, though we were surrounded by enemies and needed every warrior.”
Many of the Bull Whips spoke up in support of Black Elk’s words.
“Like Little Horse I too am troubled by this,” said Spotted Tail, leader of the Bowstrings. “Touch the Sky was soundly whipped for his misadventure with the buffalo. Why would Maiyun demand such a harsh additional punishment as this?”
Some others spoke out in favor of this. Again Gray Thunder folded his arms until it grew quiet. Honey Eater, her face tense, listened to the proceedings with her lower lip caught between her teeth. Black Elk saw this and scowled darkly.
“It is not our place to question the decisions of the Supernatural,” he put in. “We mortals debate in council, and this is a good thing, But the pronouncements of Maiyun are not for debate. They are meant to be carried out. All of you here know well the price to be paid for ignoring His will.”
Even Arrow Keeper had to agree Black Elk had spoken well this time. This was a terrible dilemma, pitting the welfare of the tribe against the suffering of a youth who had already been far more wronged than any other in the tribe.
Touch the Sky, for his part, had already realized everything as old Arrow Keeper had. Now, as every face in camp turned toward him—some sympathetic, some accusing, others simply confused—he realized how cleverly Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe had trapped him. He could not be forced to this terrible, painful ordeal which had been known to kill a man. But if he refused, once again he would seem to put his own life ahead of the tribe’s.
“Enough!” he said, his voice clear and strong. “Calf Woman claims she had a vision. Though I suspect this Vision’ was placed over her eyes by hands other than Maiyun’s, I cannot call a respected old grandmother a liar. She claims I must set up a pole or our people are lost. So let all debate end and the tribe retire to their tipis. Tomorrow, I will swing from the pole!”
~*~
Earlier, Stone Mountain and Kicking Bird had slipped past the Cheyenne sentries by way of the river. The scouts pulled their frail boat, made of buffalo hides stretched across a frame of green cottonwood, up onto the sandy bank just below the enemy camp. Walking on their heels to avoid leaving footprints, they stashed it in a thicket and crept right up on the camp.
Kicking Bird had once been a prisoner of the Southern Cheyennes for several moons and understood much of their tongue. Soon he had learned of th
eir plans for tomorrow. He Bear s Kiowa Apache had joined the combined Kiowa-Comanche band earlier. Now the attack was set.
They had learned all they needed to know. Now it was time to return to their people and report. But Kicking Bird lingered some moments longer, admiring the beautiful Cheyenne girl with the harshly cropped hair.
They must be sure to grab this one; she would fetch a good price. Even the ragged hair could not detract from her finely sculpted cheekbones, huge, almond-shaped eyes, flawless skin like wild honey. The doeskin dress clung to the sweeping curves of her hips like a second skin. She was surely much finer to look at than the venereal-tainted Mandan women he had known from many raids in the north country.
And now here was another piece of good luck. The brazen young buck who had ruined their earlier attack on the first camp would be alone and helpless while the rest were hunting.
The Comanche smiled to himself in the darkness. Soon he would no longer have to suck the tar out of his pipe; there would be plenty of tobacco once the Comancheros in Santa Fe paid for a fine group of Cheyenne slaves. And this tall brave who had stood boldly before the attack— those hooks through his breasts would seem like child’s play compared to what the Red Raiders of the Plains had in store for him.
Chapter Fifteen
Hairy Wolf used a pointed stick to draw a diagram in the dirt. Iron Eyes and He Bear, the newly arrived Kiowa Apache war leader who had led twenty seasoned braves to join this fight, crouched on both sides of him.
They were hidden in a wide apron of shade behind a mesa to the east of their enemy’s camp. The warriors of all three tribes huddled behind them in small groups, checking their weapons for the final time and passing around earthen jars of pulque or cactus liquor. None of the warriors in this group, unlike their enemies from the Northern Plains, was worrying about counting first coup or undergoing elaborate religious rites. Southern Plains tribes did not count coup nor care as much about scalping. War was not for honor, but for goods and profit.
Neither did they harbor taboos about attacking at night. But He Bear had not arrived until well after dawn with his warriors, and their numbers without his band were not great enough against the well-armed Cheyenne—fanatical warriors who did not retreat until they or their enemy were dead. Nor would they be able to engage in their favorite attack tactic, circling in an ever-tightening pattern. The land around here would not permit it, nor the scattered line of hunters.
“South of the herd and the Cheyenne camp,” Hairy Wolf said, drawing a ragged trench, “are the redrock canyons. The tribe has these canyons to its left flank, the herd dead ahead, the river on its right flank. They must ride straight into our main force, which I will lead.”
“This has a good look to it,” He Bear agreed. “Me gusta. Trapping them is a good thing, and so is attacking them like the paleface soldiers like to attack. These Cheyenne dogs, they like to flee on their ponies until the pursuers’ horses tire. Then they whirl and suddenly attack. This way, they have no room for such tricks.”
“Even better,” Hairy Wolf said, “Iron Eyes will lead a hidden force of his Comanches on their most surefooted ponies. He knows a secret trail once used by the Navajos. It leads deep through the redrock canyons to the south. He will approach unseen through the canyons while my force attacks head-on.”
“My warriors slip up from the canyons,” Iron Eyes said. “They stay carefully behind the hunters as they desert the hunt and turn back to rush out past the camp and meet Hairy Wolf’s force.
We can grab all the slaves we can carry, without once getting off our mounts,” he added boastfully. “They will realize soon enough, but these are our fastest ponies. None of theirs will catch ours in this country we know much better than they. Once we reach the Llano, they won’t have a chance.”
“What about this young shaman?” He Bear said. Unlike the Kiowa, who left their long hair unrestrained, He Bear and his warriors wore red flannel bands. “You say he remained unscathed by bullets or arrows during your first attack. And the Pawnees refused to attack the Cheyenne Chief Renewal ceremony one spring after this one supposedly commanded a grizzly to attack them. I’d like to see such a big Indian.”
“Before they join Iron Eyes and the rest, Red Sleeves and Standing Feather will pay him a visit while he swings from the pole, another of their superstitious practices. They will slice off his eyelids and slit his belly enough to pull some gut through for the carrion birds. He fancies himself defiant, but watching the crows eat his entrails will make him beg like the rest who defy us.”
~*~
Before the hunters rode out for the kill next day, the Bull Whip soldiers took charge of Touch the Sky’s punishment.
As the custom for voluntary penance required, Touch the Sky selected his own sturdy cotton-wood limb and sliced it from the tree with an ax. He spiked one end, then followed Lone Bear and the rest of the Bull Whip troop to a lone hill just south of camp. From there, everyone who stayed behind could watch him swing all day. And the hunters would all see him as they filed by.
Touch the Sky held his mouth in its grim, determined slit. Again the punishment was unjust, but how could he prove he did not have the stink on him and was not frightening off the buffalo? Calf Woman’s “vision” had not convinced everyone in the tribe, true. But enough were impressed by the realization that the entire tribe might be suffering because of him—and indeed, in his confused heart of hearts, Touch the Sky thought it possible that he did carry the stink.
So he never once hesitated as he secured one end of the pole into the dirt at the top of the hill. Nor did he flinch when Lone Bear drew the curved-bone hooks out of the parfleche over his hip.
“Remember this,” Lone Bear said, “I did not declare this punishment. You chose it, buck. Now it must go forward. I will see that the thing is done right.”
“I see clear enough,” Touch the Sky said, “that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Black Elk are keen for this.”
“They may be, but I am not!” a Bull Whip said, though a stone-eyed glance from Lone Bear hushed him.
Another brave tied Touch the Sky’s hands behind him with sturdy rawhide thongs looped tight over both wrists. The same tough rawhide was used for the halter arrangement which was attached to the hooks and would fit over the top of the pole. From this he would dangle, his weight held by hooks in his muscles.
Without another word, Lone Bear drove the first hook deep into the hard-sloping curve of Touch the Sky’s left pectoral muscle. There was surprisingly little blood, but the pain corded his neck and arched his entire body like a bow.
He met first Black Elk’s, then Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s eyes and held them, showing them no fear or pain—only hatred and the promise of sure vengeance. Then his vision blurred when Lone Bear drove in the second finely honed hook.
But that pain was as nothing compared to the sensation when several braves picked him up and lashed the halter to the pole. His feet dangled only a short distance above the ground. But it was enough to leave all his body weight tugging on the hooks. They felt like giant rattlesnake fangs trying to pierce through to his heart.
“You will hang there until the last buffalo is killed today,” Lone Bear said. “This is decreed by Hunt Law. Any who attempts to help you will hang beside you.”
But Touch the Sky, deep lance-points of pain ripping through him, held his mouth slitted and refused to make a sound.
~*~
Long after the hunters had ridden out, Arrow Keeper stood beyond the last clan circle of conical tipis. He stared toward the grotesque sight on the hill above him, his heart stung with pain for the youth’s suffering.
How viciously clever his enemies had been this time! There was no way out for Touch the Sky. Had he refused this penance, every bit of bad luck from now on would be blamed on him. And truly, the tribe was not short on bad luck and suffering.
All of this had been foretold in Arrow Keeper’s first great vision, the same vision Touch the Sky had eventually sought for himself.
The hand of the Supernatural was in this thing. But so too were many trials and sufferings for the youth once called Matthew Hanchon—a name for which he had paid dearly ever since leaving the white man’s world for the red man’s.
Too dearly, Arrow Keeper suddenly decided.
Watching the young buck hang out there, the skin of his breasts stretched to the point of tearing, he made up his mind to visit old Calf Woman.
~*~
The pain was too great, too intensely focused in his chest, for Touch the Sky to put it completely outside of himself. He hung semiconscious now, the morning sun growing hotter on his stinging flesh. His vision alternated between blurry awareness of his surroundings and a red film of pain as effective as a blindfold.
He had been aware, earlier, when a rumbling thunder and the angry bellowing of bulls announced that the herd had begun to stampede. It was followed by the sharp cries of the hunters as they gave pursuit, beginning to isolate sections of the herd. But he knew it would be a long time before the final kill was complete and someone returned to free him.
When he saw the two Comanche braves climb over the rim of the nearby canyon, headed straight for him, he realized his tribe’s mistake in ignoring the rugged string of canyons.
One of them removed a knife from its beaded sheath. Touch the Sky could not even lash out at them with his feet as they came closer—the slightest motion sent additional fiery pain throbbing deep into his chest.
The war-painted Comanche raised the narrow-bladed knife toward Touch the Sky s left eye and brought the tip against the soft skin where the eyelid met the forehead. The Cheyenne knew he meant to remove the lids and leave his eyes to literally bake in the glaring sun.
