He crept closer, listening to the warriors talk. Important things were being decided on this moonlit night; even the children knew it and ran about through the tipis, chortling with excitement, although their mothers tried to shush them and urge them to sleep. Children. His were dead.
Old Dull Knife held the ceremonial pipe aloft, offering to the four directions, to the spirit of the sky and earth, before taking a solemn puff, then passing it on around the somber circle, moving as always, right to left. It was so quiet, standing in the shadows, Two Arrows could hear the crackle of the flames, the snorting of restless horses. In a nearby tree, cicadas whirled their wings, and on a distant hill, a wolf threw back his head and sang with all his soul to the moon.
Dull Knife paused, tilting his head, and listening, the flames of the circle throwing distorted shadows across his lined face. The chief nodded with approval. “He sings the Cheyenne song,” he said solemnly. “Our brother sings to Heammawihio, the great God Above, of freedom.”
The others grunted agreement.
“It is good medicine on this night we decide this important thing,” another warrior said.
Little Wolf, the honored war leader, stared into the fire. “Like us, our furry brother grows weary of this hot, foreign land. We are and will ever be strangers here. Maybe he signals us to go north, to our own wild, free country, and he will run before us to guide us.”
Another man with many battle scars puffed the pipe and passed it to the next. “There are only a few hundred of us as the white man counts, and most of them are women and children. Where will we get the horses to carry them?”
An older woman, with gray streaks through her black hair, stepped into the firelight, her shadow distorted by the flames. “I helped scalp the soldiers when our people killed Yellow Hair and his soldiers up on the Greasy Grass that whites call the Little Bighorn. May I speak for the women?”
Two Arrows watched from the shadows as the men considered a long moment, respecting her age and her bravery. Once Moccasin Woman had been pretty, but hardship and heartbreak had taken their toll. Her husband had died at the Sappa Creek massacre, and she’d lost both sons at the Rosebud Creek battle against the white leader called Crook. Her daughter had died from malaria since they had come to this place, and her ancient mother was even now dying, so Moccasin Woman was rearing little Hah’kota, Grasshopper.
Little Wolf nodded. “Speak for the women.”
“We will walk all the way if we have to,” Moccasin Woman said, “even though it is a long, long distance and many will not live to see the high, cool country we love. The women say: take the chance; we may not get another. It is worth our lives to try.”
There was silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the women in the shadows agreeing with old Moccasin Woman as the men considered her words.
Thin Elk, who had often annoyed Little Wolf lately by paying unwanted court to the leader’s young daughter, asked, “Will the soldiers let us go or will they try to stop us?”
“The soldiers will try to stop us,” Two Arrows blurted loudly, and then paused in confusion. He was not one of them anymore. They did not want his opinion.
The men in the firelit circle turned to frown at his effrontery.
Behind him, he heard a young woman whisper, “Who is that who dares to speak?”
“No one,” sneered another. “His soul belongs to the soldiers and their whiskey—”
“Hush, woman,” Dull Knife thundered, his pockmarked face stern and solemn. “Come to the fire, soldier scout, I would see you.
Two Arrows took a deep breath. By his boldness, he had drawn their attention, and he had no right to voice an opinion among these brave men. He stepped forward, trying not to stagger with the whiskey that still ran hot through his veins, and stood silent.
He felt the stares of curious scorn, but he only looked into Dull Knife’s eyes.
The chief studied him a long moment. “You say ‘us.’ Since when does the white man’s servant include himself with the people?”
“I was not always a white man’s scout,” Two Arrows said respectfully. “Many of you elders knew my father, Clouds Above, and my brother Lance Bearer and my cousin, Iron Knife.”
A murmur of approval went around the camp circle and heads nodded. “Brave men all.”
Two Arrows ripped open his buckskin shirt and showed his scarred, mighty chest. “Only a few among you carry the scars of the sun dance as I do. I once counted many coups and my woman wore my coup marks proudly.”
“Then why did you abandon this?” Dull Knife looked puzzled, and the elderly, bent Cheyenne sitting cross-legged next to the leader leaned over to whisper in his ear. Two Arrows caught the word Washita.
The word and the terrible memories it brought back made Two Arrows take a deep breath and wince, wanting, no, needing a drink of whiskey. When he was very drunk, he didn’t hear the screams in his mind. His life had ended that frozen dawn ten winter counts ago; he only went through the motions of living now.
Yet last year, he had been among those who helped track down the escaping Nez Perce. The guilt he’d felt over his part in catching those sad, defenseless ones, so much like his own wife and children, had pushed him over the edge. He’d hardly been sober since.
“Why do you not answer me, Scout?” Dull Knife snapped.
“I am sorry, Great One, my thoughts were gone on the wind like the running wolf.”
“I said, why do you talk as if you would cast your lot with us when you have food and gold riding for the soldiers?”
He listened to the distant singing of the wolf, so wild and free, and blurted out the truth that only just now did he recognize. “I tire of being the white man’s slave,” he answered. “I serve him well, yet today, I was whipped like a cur before other bluecoats.” He pulled off his shirt, turned, and showed his back to the circle, silently enduring the humiliation of them all seeing his marks of shame.
“This is no way to treat a man,” a warrior muttered. “It shames him and our people.”
“It is nothing to the white men,” said another. “They even whip their children this way.”
A disbelieving murmur of excitement went around the circle. The Cheyenne never raised a hand to a child—they were disciplined with love, not pain.
Two Arrows turned around to face the warriors in the firelit circle. “Once I brought honor to the people; I would like a chance to do so again.” .
“Don’t listen to him.” An acclaimed warrior called Broken Blade spit in the dust and frowned. “Two Arrows has ridden for the soldiers for many years now against both our friends and enemies.”
“That is true,” Two Arrows agreed. “Only last year, I was the scout who helped the army find the Nez Perce as they tried to escape across the great northwest to Canada. Perhaps because of me, Chief Joseph’s people were captured. Sometimes a man sees that he has been wrong, that he still might change. I ask for a second chance.”
“I lost three brothers in fights with the bluecoats; the last one at Powder River against the bluecoat chief called Mackenzie,” grumbled Broken Blade to no one in particular. “I hold the Cheyenne who ride as scouts responsible. Why should we trust this traitor?”
“Because I have ridden with the soldiers long enough to know how their minds think,” Two Arrows said, but he winced at the scorn and anger he saw on the stony faces staring back at him. “If you do this thing, if you try to take these people and go back to our own country, you will have to outwit the soldiers because they outnumber you.”
“But why should they care?” another argued. “Did not the Great White Father in Washington say that we only had to try this Indian Territory and that if we did not like it, we could leave?”
“Washington speaks always with a forked tongue; you know that,” Two Arrows said. “They say whatever they think will get them what they want and think nothing of the truth and what they promised.”
A murmur of agreement went around the circle.
Broken Blade scrambled to his feet. “I say we finish what the soldiers began,” he shouted, gesturing with a closed fist at Two Arrows. “I say we whip this cur out of our camp, once and for all!”
Again more muttering and uncertainty on all faces.
“Be silent!” Dull Knife thundered. “We eannot think while mouths chatter like foolish women.”
All fell silent as the old chief stared into the fire a long time. Now the others waited patiently. Time, as the white man counted it, meant little to the Indians, Two Arrows thought impatiently; they saw no reason to be slaves to the white man’s clock and what was a few minutes when measured against eternity? “Little Wolf, what think you?”
The great war leader stared into the fire. In the silence, the wolf howled again and the sound echoed and reechoed across the lonely hills. “It is a good sign,” Little Wolf grunted finally. “I say we can use the knowledge of the soldiers’ scout.”
“What if he betrays us?” grumbled Broken Blade.
Dull Knife looked at Little Wolf and then directly into Two Arrows’s eyes. There was no mistaking the cold promise on that stern, pockmarked face. “If he betrays us, I will kill him myself! ”
Now an excited buzz went around the fire and then spread across the camp. Murder of a fellow Cheyenne was the most serious of crimes. On the few occasions it had happened, the killer and his kin were exiled from camp and ceased to exist as far as other Cheyenne were concerned. A serious crime, Two Arrows thought, but the decision they were facing was deadly serious.
“If I betray the people, I absolve you from blame,” Two Arrows said, “or may the soldiers catch me and hang me!”
A mutter of awe went through the crowd. To be hanged was more dishonorable than being whipped. All knew a person’s soul escaped through his mouth as he died, but if he were hanged, his soul was trapped in his dead body forever.
Dull Knife gestured to him. “Sit with us, then, and give us your knowledge.”
Two Arrows had not felt pride in a long, long time. He had been a hollow man that walked and talked, but his heart had been empty. Even though his back burned and his mouth ached for a drink of whiskey, once again, he felt like a dog soldier, bravest of the brave among the Cheyenne. It was a good feeling.
He sat down cross-legged in the circle and someone handed him the pipe. He tried not to let his hands tremble with the power of this important thing. It had been many winter counts since he had been offered the pipe. Two Arrows took a long puff and stared into the fire for wisdom before passing it reverently to the next man.
“What the people are considering is dangerous and perhaps foolish,” he said. “They have little chance of success, but freedom is worth dying for. All we want is another chance to live as we choose in our own country with our brother wolf.”
“Whiskey is a powerful thing,” Little Wolf said. “It becomes more important to a man than anything else. I fear you may have good intentions, yet fail when the craving gets too strong.”
Even now, Two Arrows’s body cried out for a drink. If he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the flavor on his tongue. He had not been completely sober for a long, long time. “All I ask is that the people give me the chance to prove myself,” he said.
Broken Blade snorted in disgust. “Have we come to this, then, that we place the lives of our people in the hands of a drunken white man’s Injun?”
Yes, how far he had fallen, Two Arrows thought, from an esteemed dog soldier to a drunken redskin. “I am what Broken Blade says I am, and yet, I would ask to regain the place of honor I once held.”
He saw sympathy in some of the other faces now, but not Broken Blade’s; never Broken Blade’s. The other man would never forgive him, Two Arrows thought. Sooner or later, he and Broken Blade must come into terrible conflict.
Again, there was silence, broken only by the crying of a baby somewhere in the camp and the crackle of the big campfire.
Dull Knife sighed. “Perhaps we have little choice. Two Arrows is the only one who knows what the soldiers might do. Does another wish to speak?”
A frail elder stood up, old Sitting Man. “I was a friend of Two Arrows’s father. This was a fine family of many honors that this warrior has disgraced. It is only right that we give him the chance to redeem that honor.”
Two Arrows felt the moisture come to his eyes at the mention of Clouds Above. “Somehow, I have lost my way, but I now promise on my father’s bones that I will change.”
Again, silence as each man considered.
Little Wolf looked around the circle. “Does any man feel strongly enough against him to speak out?”
A young warrior, a friend of Broken Blade’s, got to his feet. “I do not trust this drunken scout, yet like Dull Knife, I do not know who else knows what the soldiers might do.” He glared at Two Arrows as he returned to his place by the fire.
Little Wolf paused, considering. “Then we are in agreement. We will take a chance on this warrior, and woe be to him if he fails us. Now, tell us, Two Arrows, what must we do?”
He had not made a decision on his own in many years. As a scout, he followed the white man’s orders without thinking. Now lives might depend on his choices. “I say we leave in the middle of the night.” Two Arrows looked around at the other men. “The soldiers will not expect that.”
“Tonight?” asked another.
“Tonight,” Two Arrows said.
“Ancient One, mother of Moccasin Woman, is sick,” Broken Blade said. “We cannot take such an old, sick woman. Perhaps we should wait—”
“No.” Moccasin Woman strode into the circle, in her haste committing a great wrong. Cheyenne had been trained to listen respectfully as another spoke, and it was unthinkable that a woman should interrupt a warrior’s words. “Two Arrows is right; it will take several moons to cross all those miles to our country. Already the leaves turn yellow. Soon the chill breath of winter will blow across the land. If we travel in the snow, we will lose many to the cold.”
Everyone thought about her words. Moccasin Woman was stating the facts, and yet Two Arrows knew how hard this must be for her. “Ancient One is your own blood,” he whispered. “Perhaps we could wait.”
“And others will die of disease and hunger while we wait.” Her lined face betrayed no emotion, but her voice shook. “Ancient One would be the first to tell us to leave while there is still time to go north before the winter winds blow snow upon our trail.”
No one spoke, knowing what a sacrifice Moccasin Woman was making. Besides Ancient One and the little granddaughter, Grasshopper, Moccasin Woman had lost all her kin. Ancient One was much loved, but people were dying every day in this hot climate without enough food. More would die unless they left soon.
After a long moment, Dull Knife stood and gestured. “It is decided then. We will leave late tonight when the soldiers at the fort are asleep. Let the men gather the horses and the women pack the travois.”
Now Two Arrows’s knowledge of the soldiers could help his people. “It will be best,” Two Arrows said, “if we leave most of the tipis standing and campfires burning so they will think we are still here. Perhaps we can be many miles to the north before the soldiers know we’re gone.”
Dull Knife’s dark eyes showed a hint of respect. “Two Arrows speaks true. Let us make haste.”
Glory had tried to keep herself from riding toward the Indian camp. Twice she had cantered Gray Mist across the prairie, her long black hair blowing wild and free behind her, enjoying the freedom of the ride while she wrestled with her decision about David. If she married him, she would be safe and secure. He was so dependable ... and so dull. Then she was immediately ashamed. He loved her more than any man possibly could, and not many would want a divorcee.
She realized suddenly that she had turned her mare and without any conscious effort, was riding again toward the Cheyenne camp. Even as she scolded herself for her recklessness, her heart quickened with excitement at the pale glow of the many campfires in
the distance and the soft beat of the drums echoing across the rolling prairie.
Somewhere on a hill, a wolf sang, and the sound echoed and reechoed through the September night. The wolf seemed to be calling to her; it sounded so wild and free. The big savage came to her thoughts unbidden. Two Arrows was a lot like that wolf, she thought, wild and dangerous. His dark, high-cheekboned face and his brooding eyes came to her mind. She almost seemed to feel his hard, strong hand grasping hers after she had hit him with her riding crop. She shuddered, thinking what a foolish thing that had been; the virile, powerful savage could have killed her with his bare hands. He was such a contrast to blond, civilized David Krueger.
She slowed her horse to a walk and rode nearer. Strange, the camp should be settling down for the night; it was very late. Yet there seemed to be a lot of activity; people hurrying about, horses being saddled with the little Indian saddles, children awake and running about chortling with excitement. Just what was happening here?
Glory rode closer, curiosity overcoming her caution. David would be so upset with her for coming out here again, but he didn’t have to know about it. She wondered if Two Arrows was still in the camp and if a dark, beautiful woman had finally stroked Glory’s salve into the wounds of his powerful, naked back?
In her mind, Glory dipped her fingers in the creamy ointment as he lay half-naked on a blanket. She ran her fingertips across the welts on his muscular back, feeling the strength and the warmth of the man’s flesh.
Was she losing her mind to be thinking such things? Why, he was a savage! She realized she had ridden up in the shadow of a grove of sand plum bushes overlooking the Indian encampment. Her mind had been on the image of Two Arrows lying half-naked under her fingertips for her to pay much attention to what she was watching. Now she took a good, long look.
Cheyenne Song Page 4
