by John Benteen
“Aye! He speaks to me to tell me that my magic is strong! That tomorrow we will triumph!”
“No! He speaks to tell you to hold back! He speaks to warn you!”
Fears-No-Lightning’s face contorted. “How do you know what my father says?”
“Sitting Bull has told me. And he is a great medicine man!”
Fears-No-Lightning spat. “Sitting Bull is an old man whose medicine long since went away!”
Sundance kneed his horse closer. “We’ll see! We’ll see whose medicine has gone away and whose tongue is false!”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Fears-No-Lightning’s face. “You challenge me? You think to kill me?” He laughed. “Me, the immortal one?”
“No,” Sundance said, and suddenly everything was hushed. Sweat ran down his flanks from the almost unbearable humidity and the tension. “No, we’ll leave that decision to a higher power. I mean, your father . . . the lightning!”
Fears-No-Lightning blinked. “What?”
Sundance twisted, pointed. Another cold gust roiled across the prairie. In the northeast, the sky had changed its color. On the horizon, great inky clouds, crested with white, were heaped heavenward, and from their swirling peaks, lightning flashed from cloud to cloud. Even as the whole camp watched, a jagged, forked streak arced between sky and horizon, then was gone.
“The lightning!” Sundance yelled. “You see? It comes.” It was a line storm, probably full of hail and charged with electricity, moving rapidly from east to west. With the lance, Sundance pointed toward the tall butte, westward. “There!” he shouted. “You and I will go there to talk to lightning. If you are truly lightning’s son and immortal, it will come to you and show all here that it is so. And if I stand beside you and speak falsely, surely it will kill me for my arrogance! Shall we go and talk to lightning? Will you ride with me to the top of that butte and stay there through the storm?”
Beside Sundance, Crazy Horse unconsciously clapped hand to mouth in Indian gesture of astonishment. But still smiling, Fears-No-Lightning turned, looked at the butte. Then faced Sundance again, that smile of utter confidence fixed in place. “You mean it?”
“There is division here and trouble. I say if you attack the magic gun tomorrow, many men will die. You say that is not true. I call on all here to witness, we will ride there, up high, and speak to lightning; and surely lightning will answer. And we will see who rides down again and speaks the truth!”
Crazy Horse kneed his mount alongside Sundance’s. “Don’t be a fool! We’ve camped here before. Every time a storm comes, that butte’s a death-trap!”
“Be quiet,” Sundance said. His voice rose. “This is not a matter for men to decide, the Gods must make the decision. Well, Fears-No-Lightning? Will you ride with me?”
Fears-No-Lightning stared back strangely. His smile faded. “I will ride with you!” he shouted. Suddenly he reined his horse around, kicked it hard, waved his lance in a wild gesture. “Hoka-hey! Let’s go!”
As they rode hard across the creek, then over the level toward that high, flat-topped hump of ground, the storm almost kept pace, racing westward at the speed of a running horse itself. Now the wind blew cold in great wicked gusts that shoved against men and horses like a mighty fist. Keeping pace with Sundance, Fears-No-Lightning threw back his head, laughed and then gave a war whoop. Sundance almost joined him. A great excitement beat in him. This was a mighty storm, and they always stirred him deeply, touched some secret place inside him. Indeed, there were times when he himself felt kinship with a storm.
Then he sobered. He realized the chances were slim that he would come down off that butte. The gamble he was taking was a long one. But there was no way around it; if it were done at all, this was the way it had to be done. In this moment, the whole future of the Sioux hinged on what happened there.
Meanwhile, thunder rumbled from the east like the sound of a great buffalo stampede. The Sioux thought that it came from the flapping wings of a great bird, hence the Thunderbird. Its growl and roar made Sundance’s stomach tighten. Fears-No-Lightning must have heard it as a friendly sound, but to Sundance it was full of brutal, impersonal menace.
They reached the foot of the butte. Its walls towered over them, too steep for the horses to climb. They dismounted, slapped the animals on their rumps; the horses galloped off, nostrils flaring, terrified by the sense of violence in the air.
Fears-No-Lightning’s eyes glittered insanely as he looked at Sundance. “You are a foolish man but very brave,” he said. “I would not do this if I were not the lightning’s son! But I will pray for you to my father after he has taken you. Let’s go up!”
The wind swirled coldly around their faces with a touch of ice, as they scrambled up the steep slope. Panting, they gained its top, and there, on the rock-strewn level, not more than a hundred yards wide and two hundred long, they saw a sight that caused Sundance to suck in a breath of awe.
All the country for miles around lay spread out below them, bathed in a sickly, greenish light. To their right was the tributary of the White and the two camps, the conical teepees ghastly in that tinted storm-aura. People swirled among them like ants, double-staking, preparing for the storm.
To the left, maybe two miles away, a herd of buffalo could be seen, running not from the storm but toward it, instinctively heading into the wind as they always did. But on the outskirts of that great blot, antelope and deer fled in the opposite direction, as from a prairie fire.
And directly forward, eastward, the sky was gone, blotted out by a great, towering, purple-black wall of clouds, interlaced with constant lightning and coming at the gait of a running horse, driving cold wind before it. From the belly of those clouds, lighting arced up and down in venous, nervous streaks, dancing along the whole horizon. The thunder was a continuous roll, broken by loud, terrible crashes, and far behind, a strange, shining white wall seemed to stretch from earth to sky: hail, a terrible storm of it.
Wind whipped at Sundance’s war bonnet until he had to clamp it down with his left hand. It blew hard and cold in his face, and he felt a prickling in his scalp, maybe electricity; both sky and earth were full of it. He looked at the herd of buffalo again, and as they ran into cloud shadow, he could see even at this distance the fire playing around their horns, a beautiful and awesome spectacle. Then a streak of lightning lanced down from the clouds; the buffalo ran on, the herd splitting around the five dead bodies killed by that mighty blow.
Sundance turned his face into the wind, and despite his fear, he could not help laughing with a wild exultation. He could understand Fears-No-Lightning now; the sensation in him was somehow like the burning of a third or fourth drink of whiskey, a careless, destructive, don’t-give-a-damn exhilaration.
Fears-No-Lightning’s war bonnet clashed and rustled in the wind, and he was laughing, too. “My father comes!” he yelled above the wind. “You see, he comes!”
“Yes,” Sundance yelled, “he comes!” The storm seemed to be stampeding toward them, a solid grid of lightning rising and falling beneath those massive clouds. Streak after crashing streak, making straight for the butte, the highest point for miles. Sundance braced himself, leaned into the wind, raised the lance of Crazy Horse’s grandfather, shook it in defiance. On his left arm was the Thunderbird shield, with its six dangling scalps; it was sacred against many things, but one of its purposes was to protect its wearer from the lightning. He waved the flint-headed lance higher. “Come, oh, lightning!” he bellowed. “Come and make your judgment!”
Fears-No-Lightning raised his own lance, shook it so the feathers lashed this way and that along its staff. The greenish storm light glinted on its steel head, suddenly vanished as the sky turned dark as late twilight. “Come, my father!” he cried. He stretched, waved the lance again in one hand, his rifle in the other. Then the storm was on them and Sundance ran.
He dodged nimbly to the far end of the butte, threw himself flat. He looked over his shoulder as he hit the ground; Fears
-No-Lightning stood there, holding lance and rifle high, laughing wildly, as if he would embrace the very fire. There was a crash like the world splitting apart, and a sheet of flame, and then another crash and another great explosion of light, and Sundance bellied deeper into earth, filled with primeval terror and the crashing and the great explosions of cold white light broke all around him, blotted out everything. His ears rang and his heart pounded, and when he dared open his eyes, he saw cold fire dancing along his arms and hands and cried out in terror and closed his eyes again and put down his head, and then there was a sound as if the world truly had ended. The whole top of the butte seemed to shake and quiver. The flash of light penetrated even his closed eyelids, and he was knocked aside as if by a mighty hand and slid five yards down the butte’s slope. Suddenly a million fists pounded at him, and he put his hands over his skull to protect it as the hail came, lashing, stones as big as hen’s eggs, with jagged edges. The ice slammed and beat at him, and he rolled again and fetched up against a boulder that gave some shelter and crouched there, eyes closed. But the crash and roar and blaze was passing on; there was only the steady slap and drum and rattle of the hail. It came down in an incredible cascade, and then, as suddenly as it had come, it ceased.
Sundance, hunkered in the boulder’s lee, cautiously opened his eyes. He turned his head, looking westward. The light was still blotted out, but the storm had passed, still galloping on, headed for the Paha Sapa. Thunder rolled, but more distantly now, and the jagged picket fence of lightning was a mile away. Eastward, the sky was clearing.
Sundance got slowly, lamely to his feet, astounded to find himself still living. Hailstones rolled beneath his feet as, suddenly very tired, he began to climb. He reached the butte’s crest, white with ice now, and shivered in the aftermath of the chill wind. Then he saw it.
It lay face down, half-coated with the hail. One to a shapeless blob, the other a Winchester, its barrel only a twisted stalk of heat-fused metal. Sundance went to it very slowly and turned it over.
“There was no mark on Fears-No-Lightning’s face or body, not one. The mad black eyes no longer glittered, staring skyward, but white teeth showed in an exultant smile. The yellow streak down his chest, curiously, had blurred and changed to a formless smear. Sundance stood there looking down at the dead man, and when he spoke, it was in English, softly.
“You poor son of a bitch,” he said. ‘‘You poor damned son of a bitch.” Then he turned, picked up Crazy Horse’s stone-pointed lance, adjusted the quiver of flint-headed arrows on his shoulder. So, after all, it had worked. He had been careful not to have a single piece of metal on him when he went up the butte, egged Fears-No-Lightning into shaking the steel-pointed lance at the sky. And that had made the difference.
Sundance walked to the rim, stared out. He saw riders coming hard and fast across the prairie from the village, recognized Crazy Horse in the lead, Gall not far behind. Slowly, wearily, he went down the slope. The lightning had spoken, rendered its verdict, and not even the most fanatical follower of the man who had once been called Black Horse could dispute it or fail to bow to it. The chiefs were in control again, and Sitting Bull; and now the next thing was Horne and his Gatling gun.
Chapter Eight
But Horne would have to wait. Eight days of hard riding and the ordeal on the butte had exhausted even Sundance’s rawhide frame, drained even his deep resources of strength. He was staggering and groggy when he threw himself down on the bed of soft buffalo robes in Crazy Horse’s lodge that night, his body aching from the pounding of hailstones it had taken. Almost instantly he was asleep; and he did not stir again for nearly fifteen hours.
He awakened to find the side of the teepee rolled up once again, and as he opened his eyes and sat up, it seemed to him that there was an unusual amount of activity in the camp. He heard the high-pitched shouts of women, the barking of dogs, and he rolled over, wincing at the soreness that lingered in his muscles, and looked out. Then he grinned.
Out there many lodges were being set up. He watched for a moment, then turned as someone entered the teepee.
“Hau,” said Crazy Horse. “Sleep well?”
Sundance nodded. “I see that the other camp has crossed the river.”
Crazy Horse sat down, plucked a piece of meat from a pot, crammed it in his mouth, nodded. “Yes, we’re all one nation again. The stream this morning was full of warriors scrubbing off those painted lightning streaks. When we brought him down off the butte, his followers saw how wrong they had been. They are very shamefaced and are rejoining the camp.” Crazy Horse swallowed, then was silent for a moment. “He is being given a great funeral, though.”
“Good,” Sundance said. “I wish it hadn’t had to end that way.”
“All things must end. Anyhow, the authority of the old chiefs, myself included, is strong once more. The way is clear now for the other matter.”
“Tonight,” Sundance said. He found a dish, a horn spoon, helped himself to stew and to rich buffalo hump ribs. The food restored him. “Tonight, if they haven’t changed their camp.”
“No. It’s still in the same place, our scouts say. They are still busy skinning buffalo.” Crazy Horse shook his head. “To kill for a few hours, then have to skin for two days—”
“That makes it easier. Yes, we have to hit them tonight, while they still have the gun set up in the same place, the layout’s the same. There’s only one way to do it, and that’s to sneak in and kill the guards around the gun and take it that way. Once we have it, then a strong force of warriors can help us out. I’ll need three good men besides myself to do that, and maybe a hundred to back me up, maybe twice that many.”
“You’ll have your three men,” Crazy Horse said, “if I and Gall and Rain-in-the-Face satisfy you. Red Cloud wanted to come, but he’s too old for that kind of business; he can lead the warriors who come after.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Sundance said. “The three of you are too important—”
“That is why we must go. We did not become war chiefs because we were old women; we reached this rank because we are the best among the Dakota. This task demands the best. No argument, Sundance; we are the ones who ride with you.”
Looking at his face, Sundance grinned. “All right,” he said. “The best.” He stood up, stretched. “I’ll have a bath and then I want to see to Eagle.”
“Your stallion is back in shape. The best horsemen in the tribe have treated him. The sprain was not too bad. They put a small boy on his back and made him stand in cold running water for hours at a time. His bullet wound has healed, too.” Crazy Horse smiled. “But he’s tried to fight every stallion in the herd. I think we’ll have some spotted foals next spring.”
Sundance was busy for the rest of the day. Red Cloud gathered a hundred and fifty warriors and ruthlessly dry-cleaned camp for ammunition for them. Meanwhile, Sundance joined Gall and Rain-in-the-Face and Crazy Horse in purifying themselves for battle. A sweat lodge had been built of pine and willow, and in it a fire heated stones until they glowed and cracked; then water was thrown on them. The men endured the steam as long as possible, then ran out, threw themselves into the creek, gasping as the icy water rushed over them. But it toned every nerve and muscle in their bodies and rid them of any aches and pains that might have interfered with their efficiency as fighting men.
After that, he checked on Eagle. The big horse was indeed in fine fettle; he quivered with eagerness and strength as Sundance rode him back and forth along the creek. Satisfied, Sundance joined the chiefs for more talking.
“We’ll ride about sunset,” he summed up. “That will give us time to get into position three hours before dawn. That’s when white men are at their lowest, sleepiest. We four will go in, take out the guards, capture the gun, then signal the others to come up. And we’ll have to rely on the bow and knife and axe. If one of us fires a gun, it could ruin everything.”
They agreed. Sundance added, “Let no one have false ideas about what we’re up agains
t. The Hornes are tricky men, and they’ve got a hundred hunters with repeating rifles, as tough as any you’ll ever have to fight. Even if we get the gun, it’s not likely to be easy.” His face clouded. “And—there’s one thing else. We take no prisoners. When we get through, the Hornes and their entire outfit must vanish from the face of the earth as if they never existed.”
“Hau!” Gall said, and his deep-set eyes glittered. “Washtai! Good!”
After that, the day passed slowly. Just before sundown, they rode.
Sundance, reining to one side, looked at the war party in the dying light, and the sight stirred him. Nearly two hundred Sioux in full war paint and regalia, strung out across the prairie on their spotted, painted horses. The low-slanting sun gleamed on war bonnets and feathered coup sticks and on the feathers dangling from the jaw bridles and the dressed tails of the warhorses; it struck flashes from a hundred rifles and as many steel lance points and heightened the color of naked red torsos. This, he thought, was the finest light cavalry in the world riding into battle, and there was not a man among them who knew the meaning of fear or the word surrender. Indeed, most of the Dog Soldiers riding at the head or making the rear guard wore around their waists dogskin ropes and somewhere on their person carried picket pins or stakes. These were men who had vowed to fight to the death; once they took position, they drove in those stakes, tied themselves to them with the ropes and stood their ground until victorious or dead.
And at their head rode their chiefs—Gall, Crazy Horse, Rain-in-the-Face and Red Cloud, with lesser ones strung out behind. They sat their horses with dignity and unconscious authority, great men all, and the ones who would have to bear the brunt of much fighting still to come. This was only the opening battle for the Paha Sapa, the Black Hills. The big, final fight that Sitting Bull envisioned was still far off— perhaps months, maybe a year, maybe two. But, given the gold-hunger of white men, it was as inevitable as the setting of the sun. Sadness filled Sundance. There would, of course, be money with the wagon train, a payroll for the hunters. And if this fight were won, he would take that, and send it East, too. But now that Custer had loosed his headlines, there was not enough money in the world to keep a lot of blood from being shed on these high prairies.
