Cheyenne Justice

by Charles G. West

  As a precaution, Jason waited a few minutes, listening and watching before he moved out of the willows to retrieve his kill. He had not taken more than a dozen steps toward the slain antelope when he stopped dead in his tracks. A sound, at first unidentifiable, caused him to drop to one knee, his rifle ready. He listened while his eyes searched the edges of the river on both sides…nothing! He was about to suspect his mind was playing tricks on him when he heard it again. This time he identified it as a low moan. He had killed hundreds of antelope in his time but he had damn sure never heard one moan. Yet the sound seemed to come from the dead beast, where it lay on the sandy edge of the river.

  Exercising extreme caution, he advanced slowly toward the carcass. It was not until he was within a few yards of the antelope that he realized the moaning came from beyond and, at the same instant, he realized the sound he was hearing was a Cheyenne death song. His senses totally sharpened now, he immediately flattened himself behind a small rise in the bank and quickly scanned the river beyond. He could not pinpoint the source of the chant. Weak and feeble, the moaning stopped for a while, then started again. The river was skirted by a series of bluffs and gullies and the source had to be in one of the many gullies that led down to the river.

  Jason decided it best to climb up the bluffs and work his way upstream so he could search the gullies from above, figuring that whoever was doing the moaning might be watching the river downstream. Working his way carefully past the numerous coulees and cuts, he came upon a narrow gully that descended to a grassy flat, hard by the water’s edge. There, lying among the willows, he discovered the origin of the death song.

  The man, a Cheyenne warrior from the look of him, appeared to be alone and, even from his position up on the bluff, Jason could see that he was seriously wounded. Obviously dying, the warrior was too weak to take a defensive position. Instead, he was lying on his back, seemingly indifferent to who or what might happen upon him. This was the reason the antelope was so jumpy. He had no doubt gotten scent of the Indian.

  Jason remained on the bluff and watched the stricken man below him for a while. The Indian would lie still for a few minutes and then start his death song again until, exhausted, he lay quiet again. Jason looked carefully around, making sure the Indian was indeed alone. He didn’t want to stumble into an ambush. Satisfied that there was no one else hiding in the gullies, Jason finally made his way down to the water, his rifle ready. A bullet from a dying Indian was just as fatal as one from a healthy one.

  There was no need for caution. The wounded man made no effort to defend himself when Jason stood over him. In fact, Jason wasn’t sure at first if the man was even aware of him. It took but a moment for Jason to realize there was nothing he could do for the man other than possibly ease his discomfort a bit. He was not a young man, and was respected in his village, judging by the three eagle feathers he wore. Jason surmised the warrior had been wounded in battle before, maybe once for each feather. He had been gut shot and the wound looked bad. His belly was swollen from internal bleeding and there was a smell of gangrene about him. After a moment, he opened his eyes. He registered no surprise when he saw the tall white scout standing over him.

  “I can run no more; my strength is gone. You would not have caught me, but my wound is bad. I am ready to die.”

  Jason was surprised. “I wasn’t chasing you,” he replied, answering in the warrior’s tongue.

  “You are not with the soldiers who attacked our camp?”

  “No, I’m not with the soldiers. I just happened to stumble on you.” He knelt down for a closer look at the warrior’s wound. “I’ll help you if I can.” Looking at the wound, he knew that he couldn’t.

  “Water,” the warrior said.

  Seeing an empty water skin lying beside the wounded man, Jason picked it up and went to the edge of the river to fill it. When he returned, the warrior took it eagerly but, with no strength left in his arms, he dropped the skin bag. Jason picked it up and held it to the Cheyenne’s lips. Jason knew that it probably didn’t do the man’s wound any good to give him water but he couldn’t see any sense in denying him some little comfort in his remaining moments. The warrior drank in great gulps until he started to vomit some of it back, mixed with blood.

  After retching uncontrollably for a few moments, the warrior seemed to relax. “Thank you,” he gasped weakly.

  Jason looked into the man’s face for a long moment, not knowing what to do for him. Finally he told him that he was going to fetch his horses and the antelope he had just killed. Then he would return to make camp there and do what he could for him. The warrior nodded, understanding. Jason got to his feet and walked back down the river. As he told the warrior, he would return and make camp there, but he halfway expected the man to be dead by the time he got back.

  To his surprise, the Cheyenne was still alive when he returned and even appeared to be resting more comfortably. The warrior, in turn, was surprised that Jason had come back. He smiled weakly at the scout when he came to check on him.

  “I’ll see about building us a fire and then I’ll cut up some of this meat to cook.” He glanced back at the warrior. “Can you eat something?” he asked, knowing that it was not a good idea.

  “Yes. I would like to taste some meat before I die.” Jason hurried to skin and butcher the antelope, afraid he could not get it done before the Indian died. The Cheyenne studied his unlikely benefactor with curiosity. “How are you called?”

  “My name’s Jason Coles,” Jason replied as he busied himself with the butchering.

  “Coles,” he whispered. “I have heard that name. I am Talking Owl of the Cheyenne.” In weak and halting phrases, he went on to tell Jason how he happened to be there beside the Cheyenne River, dying. He and his wife were in Tall Bull’s village on the Powder, visiting her relatives, when the village was attacked by soldiers. The people tried to fight but they were badly outnumbered and forced to flee for their lives. Talking Owl’s wife was cut down as she ran from their tipi. He was shot in the stomach when he tried to go to her aid. After that, all the people fled into the hills. He managed to catch his pony and escape, hoping to reach Two Moon’s village on the Tongue River.

  Some soldiers chased him for a few miles, he said, but they gave up when they realized they were too far from their brothers. Talking Owl’s wound became worse and worse, and he knew his insides were torn apart. Finally he became too weak to ride and he lay down to rest here by the river. A day passed and he found that he could not summon the strength to get to his feet. He lay there another day. His pony wandered off sometime during the second night and he resigned himself to face death. When he heard Jason’s rifle, he assumed more soldiers had tracked him and he started to sing his death song.

  Jason cut some strips of meat and set them over the fire to cook. While they roasted, he got some water from the river and cleaned Talking Owl’s wound. There was nothing more he could do for it—the damage was all inside and, in Jason’s opinion, even a doctor wouldn’t have been able to do anything to save the Indian. The Cheyenne had already accepted the inevitable and seemed to be at peace with it. When the meat was done, Jason propped his saddlepack behind the wounded man so he could sit up a little, and for a little while Talking Owl almost appeared to be getting better. He ate the hot meat eagerly, even though it caused him painful spasms and he could only manage a few bites before giving up. He laid back and watched Jason while the white scout ate.

  “I think you are a good man, Jason Coles. I’m sorry we could not have fought on the same side.” He studied the scout’s face for a long time, making up his mind before he spoke again. His decision made, he continued. “There is a bundle under me, under the robe I lie on.” With a weak gesture of his hand he indicated the left side of the deer hide he had made his bed upon.

  Jason reached under the edge of the robe and got the bundle. There were four arrows with stone heads, wrapped in a strip of fur. He looked at them for a moment, wondering, and then it came to him. Fo
ur arrows, wrapped in fur—from the back of a coyote, he’d bet. The shafts were expertly fashioned and decorated. These were the tribe’s medicine arrows—Talking Owl was the Keeper of the Medicine Arrows and consequently a very respected man in his village. He glanced up at the Cheyenne warrior and found the Indian studying his face intently.

  “You know what they are.” It was a statement, for Talking Owl had read the reaction in Jason’s face.

  “Yes,” Jason answered. “They are the medicine arrows.”

  Talking Owl nodded solemnly. “If you know this, then you know how sacred they are to my village.” Jason nodded. “They must be carried safely to Two Moon’s camp and returned to my people.”

  Jason could see the desperation written in Talking Owl’s face. He knew the importance the Cheyenne people placed on the medicine arrows. They, along with the medicine hat, were the two most important symbols in their religion. Without the sacred arrows, they would not usually go to war. They were so sacred that the women of the tribe were not permitted to even look at them. Yes, he knew the importance of the arrows and he also knew what Talking Owl was going to ask him to do.

  “I am dying, Jason Coles. For the sake of my people, will you take the arrows to Two Moon’s camp?”

  Jason didn’t know what to say. It was no small request, asking him to ride deep into hostile territory, right into a hornet’s nest of angry Cheyennes. Most likely they’d skin him alive for even having the arrows in his possession. He gazed directly into Talking Owl’s eyes when he answered. “I thought it would destroy the medicine if an enemy touched the sacred arrows. I have fought the Cheyenne. Two Moon would see me as an enemy.”

  “The medicine cannot be destroyed as long as the arrows are returned to the people. There is no other way. I am going under. You are the only way.” Talking Owl’s eyes gleamed in the reflection of the campfire as he pleaded with Jason. “The arrows must not be lost!”

  “I understand the importance of returning the arrows, but I don’t like my chances of coming back with my scalp if I do what you ask.”

  “You will not be harmed for returning the arrows,” Talking Owl stated.

  Jason was not convinced. “How will they know I didn’t steal them…killed you and took ’em off you?”

  “They will know your heart is good because you will bring the arrows back to the people. They will also know that we are brothers. They will not harm you.”

  Jason began to wish he had taken another trail to Fort Lincoln. He didn’t like the odds of riding into a Cheyenne camp with the present state of hostilities between the army and the Indians. But, looking into the desperate eyes of the Keeper of the Medicine Arrows, he couldn’t refuse the dying man’s request. Damn, he thought, it won’t be the first damn fool thing I’ve done. To Talking Owl he nodded and said, “All right, I’ll take them back for you.”

  Talking Owl smiled and sank back against the saddlepack. “I knew I had read your heart correctly. Give me your knife.” Jason pulled out his skinning knife and placed it in Talking Owl’s hand. The Indian drew the blade across his wrist, bringing blood. He handed the knife back to Jason and nodded his head toward Jason’s wrist. Jason understood. He drew the blade across his own wrist and pressed it tightly against Talking Owl’s wrist. “Now we are brothers, Jason Coles. You are not an enemy of the Cheyenne people. You must tell Two Moon this.”

  That done, Talking Owl sank back again and sighed. It had all happened so quickly that Jason was almost stunned. He looked at his wrist in disbelief. Talking Owl was quiet then and closed his eyes to sleep. Jason turned back to the meat roasting over the fire. When he turned again to Talking Owl, the Cheyenne was dead. The awesome responsibility of the medicine arrows was the only thing that had been keeping him alive. Jason looked at the peaceful face of the dead warrior and then at the insignificant-looking bundle he had been entrusted with, then back at the face of the Indian. “Yeah, you look peaceful enough now. Your worries are over. My hind end is to the fire now.”

  The next morning, Jason scratched out a shallow grave for Talking Owl. There were not many rocks to be found near the river, so he dragged a dead log over the grave to discourage scavengers from digging up the Cheyenne’s remains. When he had done as well as he could for him, he stood over the grave for a moment. He felt like he should say something, but Jason was not a praying man. Finally he looked up toward the tops of the cottonwoods and mumbled, “Lord, here comes another one. I reckon you know whether he was good or bad.”

  He saddled White and loaded his pack on Black. He picked up the bundle of medicine arrows and looked at them with a curious eye. “A helluva thing,” he muttered. “On my way to Fort Lincoln and here I am with the Cheyennes’ big medicine.” He glanced down at the cut on his wrist. “Blood brother to a dead Cheyenne,” he added. “Helluva thing!” He tucked the bundle into his pack.

  White protested a bit when Jason tried to step up in the saddle, causing Jason to hop around in a circle on one foot, the other in the stirrup, while he chased the reluctant horse. “Dammit, White! You’re getting too damn rank. You ain’t been pulling your share of the load.” When he finally got a good handful of mane and pulled himself up, White took a couple of steps sideways, then settled down when she felt the solid weight of the scout in the saddle. Since Jason favored the black Appaloosa, he didn’t work White as much as he should, so this routine was one he almost always went through when he decided to ride her. He glanced back at Black. The horse tossed his head up and down as if mocking him. “You know you’re the favorite, don’t you?”

  Jason rode to the river’s edge and paused. He had to decide. He didn’t take lightly his promise to a dying man, unreasonable as Talking Owl’s request seemed. But he was on his way to Fort Lincoln. The telegram said, “Get here as soon as you can.” In all likelihood, he would be riding for the army again, maybe against Two Moon’s village for all he knew. “Dammit! Why the hell did I have to come this way?” Talking Owl had said he believed Two Moon was camped on the Tongue, near the fork of the lower branch. That was a good bit deeper into hostile territory than Jason had planned to go.

  The thought occurred to him that he was in possession of the sacred arrows. As a rule, the Cheyennes didn’t like to go to war without the medicine arrows. It might be a devastating blow to the Indians’ morale if he took the arrows to Fort Lincoln and sent word to Two Moon that the army had captured the medicine arrows. Colonel Holder would like that well enough. So would that flamboyant rakehell with the Seventh Calvary, Custer. He’d love to get his hands on them. When it all boiled down, however, there really wasn’t much deciding to do. Jason had given his word. A promise was a promise—white man or red man, it was all the same. He pulled White’s reins to the left and the other side of the river toward the Powder and the Wolf Mountains beyond.

  Chapter II

  Leaving the Little Powder, Jason pushed hard for all of that day, not permitting White to settle into a leisurely pace. Once the decision was made to take the arrows to Two Moon’s camp, he wanted to get it done. Heading due west, he hoped to make the Powder that night. It would be a long day but his horses were rested and fed, and they were a strong breed. He should strike the river by nightfall.

  Talking Owl said Two Moon was camped on the Tongue. Even though he had told him approximately where he was on that river, it still left a lot of territory to search in. It was hard to say how long the village would stay put before moving on to another site. And there were other concerns to keep in mind as well. When he left Fort Fetterman, scouts had reported that Crazy Horse’s band of Lakotas were camped somewhere on the Little Horn, and that Sitting Bull had moved his village north, somewhere on the Yellowstone. That meant they should be nowhere near Two Moon’s Cheyennes, but Jason knew that information was several weeks old. He hadn’t hung on to his hair after this many years by being careless, and it was always a good idea to assume you weren’t alone in Indian territory because you generally were not. Although he saw no one, there was plenty o
f sign so he kept a sharp eye as he encouraged his horses to keep up the pace.

  A little before dark, he struck the Powder and, after scouting up and down the river for a considerable distance, he picked his campsite on the western bank. Before making his camp, he took care of his horses. Although both horses had done a good day’s work, White was still ornery enough to kick her hind legs when Jason went around behind her after pulling the pack off of Black. Jason, wary of the animal’s disposition, easily avoided the hooves. It was not a vicious kick, but more a halfhearted effort, meant to register her displeasure rather than to maim.

  “You don’t like toting me around, do you?” Jason talked to the spotted white Appaloosa while he pulled the saddle off of her. “Well, you can carry that light pack tomorrow and I’ll ride Black. He ain’t so damn temperamental.”

  Late the next day, Jason found the place Talking Owl had described on the lower Tongue. There had been a large camp there, all right, but it was gone now. Their pony herd had just about used up the grass, and probably the game in the area too, Jason figured. From the wide trail left by the horses and travois, it was apparent they had moved farther up past the fork of the river. Jason looked around the campsite for a little while, calculating the size of the village. They had remained there for several weeks, judging by the circles left in the grass where the tipis had stood. After studying the trail north, he figured they had moved out two days before. “Well, they won’t be hard to find,” he mumbled and climbed aboard Black.

  He followed the trail for what he estimated to be about eight miles before darkness overtook him again and he made camp in a shallow ravine that ran down to the river. The Cheyennes had held close to the river and had passed several likely looking campsites. They must have figured they had run all the game off for quite a ways, he thought. He was in the saddle again at sunup.