Blood Bond

by William W. Johnstone

  “Are we supposed to wait here for him?”

  “It don’t make no difference, Lieutenant. Bodine will find us.”

  “How?” Gerry demanded. “He won’t know which direction we’ve gone. Does he possess some sort of mystical powers?” The last was said with no small amount of sarcasm. . . and just a touch of jealousy.

  Simmons spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. “There’s them that would say so, sir.”

  Chapter 2

  Bodine possessed no magic powers. He just used the senses the good Lord gave him, such as looking at something and actually seeing it in its entirety.

  And it was logical to Bodine to assume that if the colonel sent a patrol out on a five-day scout, there would be two and a half days out and two and a half days back. It was now the downswing of the third day, which meant the patrol would be going back to the fort. Logical.

  An hour before dusk, Bodine came upon a small, down-at-the-heels-looking band of Blood Indians, distant relatives of the Blackfoot. Bodine lifted his hand in greeting and it was returned.

  “I am looking for my brother, Two Wolves.”

  “You are Bodine, who used to be called He-Who-Falls-Down-A-Lot?”

  Bodine laughed and the Bloods chuckled with him. Everyone knew that story and how it came to be that Medicine Horse named him that.

  “Yes.”

  The Blood sub-chief pointed toward the mountains.

  “There.” He looked long and somewhat hard at Bodine. “It is odd that a man who scouts for the blue bellies would be a tsis tsis tas.”

  “My adopted father, Medicine Horse, proclaimed me to be one of the people, a human being.”

  “It is good. Medicine Horse is a wise chief.” He lifted his hand in farewell and was gone without a glance back at Bodine.

  Bodine rode for the mountains and made camp at dark, deliberately building a fire much larger than he normally would, and after eating, rolling up in his blankets by the fire, something else he would not normally do. Usually after eating, he would move several miles farther on before making camp for the night.

  Bodine was in his blankets, but he was far from asleep.

  His blood brother, Two Wolves, was as much a loner as was Matt Bodine, preferring the solitary beauty of the vast and, for the most part, empty-appearing wilderness to the lodges of his people. And contrary to public belief, Two Wolves did not run with a band of trouble-making, malcontented, renegade young bucks. For Two Wolves was much like his father, Medicine Horse. Two Wolves was not at war with all the whites . . . just a few of them.

  He was like several of the big ranchers in this area, who took what they wanted by force and lived without reason or compassion for other people, the land, and its animals. Who, according to Two Wolves’s way of thinking, had as much right to exist as the two-legged animals. Perhaps more right. Two Wolves had dealt them some misery: ripping down fences, running off cattle, burning down line-shacks. Two Wolves had killed, but always in self-defense; even his most vocal enemies would admit—although never aloud—that Two Wolves was not a cold-blooded savage.

  What he was, mostly, was a pain in the rear end.

  But for all his good points—and they far overshadowed his bad side—that still would not stop many ranchers from hanging him on the spot if they could get their hands on him. Or shooting him.

  Bodine lay in his blankets and waited for the arrival of his blood brother. He knew that when it came, it would come as suddenly as a striking rattler, and to unsuspecting eyes, appearing to be just as deadly.

  The stallion stopped grazing and lifted his head, ears alert. Bodine tensed under the blanket, one hand gripping the edge of the blanket. A whisper of a moccasin on grass reached him, followed by the faint smell of grease and wood smoke.

  Bodine exploded out of his bedroll just as a buckskin-clad shape came hurling out of the night. Bodine flipped the blanket over the shape, grabbed the ends tightly and, using his foot, tripped the man, sending him to the ground.

  Two Wolves rolled, freeing himself from the blinding blanket, and leaped at Bodine, his hands reaching for the man’s throat. Bodine sidestepped and grabbed a thick wrist, turning as he did and using a hip, and tossed his blood brother to the ground.

  Two Wolves came up with a snarl and slapped Bodine, open-handed. The blow stung, smarting Bodine’s cheek and wetting his eyes. Bodine promptly returned the slap, twisting Two Wolves around.

  The stallion had returned to grazing. He had seen all this foolishness many times before. Had it been a real enemy, the stallion would have joined Bodine in killing the man.

  Grabbing Two Wolves around the waist, Bodine lifted him off his feet and threw him to the ground. Two Wolves sat on the cool ground and laughed.

  “It was your turn anyway,” the half-breed finally said. “I graciously allowed you to win.”

  “You allowed me nothing, Brother. Come. Sit. The coffee is hot. Have you eaten?”

  “I nooned,” Two Wolves said, pouring a tin cup full of the cowboy coffee, hot and black as the wages of sin. He slurped the brew and smacked his lips after the first sip, the way of showing approval and thanks. “How did you find me?”

  “I saw a small band of Bloods. They said you were in the mountains.”

  “There are many mountains.” Two Wolves broke off a hunk of bread and with his knife speared a piece of bacon from the blackened skillet.

  “But only one where we summered that time.”

  “This is truth.”

  The two men, although not related by family, could easily pass for physical brothers. They were both the same age, and both possessed the same lean-hipped and heavy musculature. One pair of eyes were black, the other blue. One had raven black hair; Bodine’s hair was dark brown and worn shorter.

  Both wore the same type of three-stone necklace. “Why did you come to the mountains?”

  “To see you.”

  Two Wolves moved a flattened hand from side to side, telling Bodine that while that was not an outright lie, neither did he believe that was the real reason.

  “A man was tortured to death not far from Cutter. Happened early this morning. Some are placing the blame on you.”

  “You know better. The only person I have ever put through pain was myself.”

  The coming of manhood. Bodine knew it well. He would carry the scars on his chest until death took him.

  “Why are they blaming it on you?”

  “They have to do something to create more hate toward me. Why not this?”

  “Do you know who might have done it?”

  Two Wolves shrugged. “Any one of a hundred people. Five hundred. Everyone knows I am Onihomahan.”

  Friend of the Wolf.

  “No more than I am, Brother.”

  “This is truth.”

  Both men revered the wolf and had crawled up into wolf dens many times in their youth. Both had raised wolf cubs as pets.

  “So it is solely because of your deep concern for our Brother the Wolf that the white man wants to see you dead?” This was spoken with no small degree of sarcasm.

  “But of course.” This was said with a twinkle in the dark eyes.

  Now it was Bodine’s turn to flatten his hand and move it from side to side.

  Two Wolves grunted and drank his coffee.

  “The wolves kill cattle, Brother.”

  “So does the rain which produces floods, and the sun which dries the water holes, and the lightning and thunder which causes the cattle to stampede, and the wind which can hold tornadoes. Does the white man stand and shoot at the wind and the drops of rain and the flashing of lightning and the booming of thunder? The white man is a stupid creature. That which he does not understand, and will make no effort to understand, he wishes to destroy.”

  “This is also truth.”

  Two Wolves grunted and looked at his blood brother. “Sometimes you do make sense. It is good that you spent time with us and became a human being.”

  “And you could have
had more time at the university back east. Our fathers were disappointed that you came back so soon.”

  “The young men were pale and silly and afraid. What few girls were there were even paler and sillier and more afraid. And ugly. It was disgusting. How can one be expected to learn with so much foolish laughter and the stench of fear in his nostrils? The woman who sat opposite me in one class looked like a bear’s behind. I kept expecting her to charge.”

  Bodine lay back on the cool grass and laughed until his sides hurt. His laughter was infectious and soon Two Wolves was rolling on the ground, laughing.

  Bodine had learned early that the talk of Indians having no sense of humor was completely false. Many of them just had a different sense of humor. And when around the white man, they had learned to maintain a stoic expression, since many didn’t speak the language and didn’t know what was going on most of the time. And for good reasons on both sides, neither side really trusted the other.

  The young men wiped their eyes and drank more coffee, enjoying the warmth of the now small fire and the closeness of brothers being together.

  “Now more truth,” Bodine said.

  “My father and his small tribe were given the land they now live on, correct? To be theirs forever and ever?”

  “That is correct. That was part of the treaty of 1868, the same treaty that closed the Bozeman Road and abandoned Forts Phil Kearny, Reno, and C.F. Smith.”

  “Uh-huh. And that same treaty created a reservation, guaranteeing that all lands west of the Missouri River to the borders of Montana and Wyoming would be Sioux and Cheyenne, forever and ever, correct?”

  Bodine sighed. “This is truth.”

  “The white man lied—again.”

  “Sadly, this is also truth.”

  “Unless of course, the land has shrunk without our knowing it.”

  “The land has not shrunk. But your father’s land has not been bothered.”

  “Ahh! Not yet. Hear me well, my brother. The Northern and Southern Cheyenne are talking. The Tsis tsis tas and the Suhtai. The Men. The white man separated us from our friends, the Arapahoe, and stuck us with the hated Crow, those eaters of dung.”

  “You were at peace with them for a time, I recall Medicine Horse saying.”

  “Long before we were born, and then for only three years. That is not the point and please stop changing the subject. Now listen to me, Bodine, the Shi shi ni wi he tan iu has begun in some areas.”

  Bodine’s eyes narrowed at that news. The Snake Dance, or dance of the snakes. The Comanches—themselves feared fighters—had been driven from their lands by the Cheyennes long years ago. The Cheyenne had given the name Shi shi ni wi he tan iu to the Comanche, not intending it to be a compliment, for literally translated, it meant Snake Men. To some Cheyenne, it became a victory dance. And a dance before war.

  The Cheyenne were feared by most of the plains Indians, with the exception of the Sioux. While the tribes did fight, there was never the open hatred that existed between the Cheyenne and the Crow, the Dakotas, the Assiniboins, and the Kiowas. The Cheyenne fought with the Pawnees and the Shoshonis until all intertribal wars ceased on the Northern Continent.

  The last great battle the Cheyenne fought with the Kiowas, the Comanches, and the Apaches took place in 1838. In 1840, a truce was made that had not been broken to date.

  Two Wolves pointed a finger at Bodine. “You know, Bodine, that the Cheyenne are the greatest warriors who ever lived.”

  Bodine nodded his head. That was a point that few would argue.

  “You know,” Two Wolves continued, “that when my people met the Assiniboins—the Ho Hes—we were defeated because the Ho Hes had guns and we did not. It was a relative of mine who rallied the Cheyenne and said, ‘The Ho Hes have attacked us and killed some of us. Now I say that from this time on, we shall fight with all people we meet and then we shall become great warriors.’ ”

  “I know the story. And it is truth. The Cheyenne are the greatest warriors who ever lived.”

  “There is war talk, my brother. Even in the lodges in my father’s camp there is war talk. If this pompous, strutting rancher, this Tom Thomas, causes my father and his followers to be pushed off land that was given them by the president himself, there will be war.”

  “You cannot win a war against the whites, Two Wolves.” Bodine spoke softly. “They are too many . . .”

  Two Wolves noticed that Bodine used “they” instead of “we.”

  “. . . and they are like ants. They just keep coming and coming in an endless march across the plains. It’s 1875, Two Wolves.”

  “And that means? . . .”

  “You cannot stop progress. But I will see what I can do about this Tom Thomas. I’ve heard of him, and he’s an arrogant one, all right. Is he hiring gunhands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Simon Bull?”

  “He is one of them, so I have been told. And he also has a man from the East, New York City, I am also told, whose name is Whacker Corrigan. He was something called a Shoulder-Striker in the city. Whatever that means.”

  “That means he was a bully. They’re henchmen of crooked politicians hired to keep the people in line and make sure they vote the way they’re told to vote.”

  ‘What a marvelous thing, this democratic system of the white man.”

  Bodine was still chuckling as Two Wolves slipped back into the darkness and was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Bodine caught up with the patrol when they were halfway between Cutter and the small garrison on the Tongue.

  “Did you find out anything?” Gerry asked him, irritated that Bodine could find them so easily in such a vast wilderness.

  “Two Wolves didn’t kill that man.”

  “And how did you reach that conclusion?”

  “Two Wolves told me.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Of course. He’s my brother.”

  “Why didn’t you bring him in, damnit! You know we want to talk to him.”

  “I’m paid to scout for the Army, not arrest people.”

  Lieutenant Gerry ground his teeth together in frustration but managed to keep from vocalizing his feelings. Bodine was impossible! “Bodine, what would you do should the Cheyenne attack this patrol?”

  “They won’t.”

  “What would you do if the Sioux attacked this patrol?”

  “They won’t.”

  “Damnit, man!” Gerry twisted in the uncomfortable cavalry saddle.

  Bodine smiled faintly, knowing what Gerry had on his mind. “If Indians attacked this patrol, Lieutenant, I would fight.”

  But against whom? Gerry thought bitterly. Us, or them? And that was a point he intended to pursue with Colonel Travers.

  * * *

  “You’re out of line, Lieutenant,” the colonel told him. “Bodine sides with the Indians when he thinks they’re in the right, and tells them up front when he thinks they’re wrong.”

  “I don’t trust him.” Gerry stood his ground. “I won’t go over your head, Colonel, but I do wish to exercise my right and lodge a written protest.”

  Travers smiled thinly, staring at Gerry. The boy has a good sand and gravel bottom to him, the colonel thought. But if he doesn’t learn to bend that stiff New England neck he won’t last out here.

  Colonel Travers had been in the Army since the early ’50’s, a well-thought-of man and a highly capable leader. He was a veteran of four years of fighting during the Civil War and of ten years on the Plains. He had fought Indians and had many friends among the various Indian tribes. He respected the Indian and knew that in many cases—but not as many as the Eastern press allowed—the Indian had been given the short end of the stick in dealings with the white man.

  “Write your letter of protest, Lieutenant. I will put it in your file.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gerry saluted, wheeled about, and left the office, his back as stiff and unbending as his neck.

  Travers walked to the door and called for his
sergeant. “Get Bodine for me.”

  Travers waved the scout to a chair and poured them coffee. “Lieutenant Gerry doesn’t trust you, Matt.”

  “I sort of figured that out myself, Colonel. Maybe it’s time for me to resign.”

  Travers sat down behind his desk and stared at the scout. “In a way, yes. But you’ll still be on the Army’s payroll . . . not that you need the money,” he added with a smile.

  Bodine arched an eyebrow and waited.

  “I’m going to tell you something, Bodine; something that I have no business telling you. But, unlike Lieutenant Gerry, I know you and trust you to do the right thing. General Sheridan has ordered that an examination be made of the Yellowstone River, from its mouth to the junction with the Bighorn.”

  “You’re not serious!” Bodine sat up from his slouch in the straight-back chair.

  Travers held up a hand. “Wait, there’s more. He’s also ordered that several sites be recommended for permanent Army bases, forts from which Indian raids could be controlled. General Forsyth and Colonel Grant are to be in charge. The expedition is to be kept as secret as possible.”

  “Damnit, Colonel, that area was to be set aside for the Crow and the Cheyenne—a stupid move if ever the government made one, knowing how the Crow and Cheyenne feel about each other. Now this, on top of that fool rancher Tom Thomas . . . Does the government want the lid to blow right off the pot?”

  “The tribes will be given land a bit farther south of the original proposal.”

  “Oh, sure.” Bodine’s words were caustic. “So Tom Thomas can have the best water and the best graze and to hell with promises made to the Indians.”

  Travers shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t my idea, Bodine. I just follow orders. The expedition will leave Fort Buford on May the 26th. Three companies of infantry, three hundred fifty rounds of ammunition per man, a Gatling gun, and one month’s rations for the field.”

  “And you want me to do what?”

  “Ride up there and tell your Indian friends to leave the troops alone.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  Travers ignored the sarcasm and nodded his head.