Blood Bond

by William W. Johnstone

  “Fat Bear,” Bodine said. “I come with news of great importance.”

  “I admire Bo-dine’s courage,” the sub-chief said, walking toward him. “The adopted son of the Cheyenne is either a very brave man or a fool.”

  “I have ridden far to bring the news. I am hungry.”

  Fat Bear looked crestfallen. “I am sorry. I have forgotten our ways.” He struck himself on the chest as punishment, called for his woman to bring bowls of food, and instructed his children to bring robes for them to sit on.

  After a mostly silent meal of venison and Indian pudding—corn, milk, and honey—with eating being serious business with no place for talk, Bodine smacked his lips and rubbed the grease from his hands onto his forearms. “Fat Bear is a great man,” Bodine said.

  “This is truth,” Fat Bear agreed, obviously pleased with the compliment.

  “I would want no other than Fat Bear to ask Big Face to meet with me.”

  “Fat Bear would probably be the only one who could arrange that. Bo-dine was wise to come to me.”

  Any one of the tribe’s sub-chiefs could have approached Big Face, but a little ego-stroking never hurt.

  “I will see Big Face. Eat, eat, Bo-dine. Your trail has been long.” His eyes glinted and his smile was faint. “You and your brother, Two Wolves, have ridden hard.”

  Bodine expected that. Keeping his face bland, he said, “My brother has gone to see the Sioux. He carries the same news as I.”

  Fat Bear grunted. “Why did Two Wolves go to the Sioux and not you?”

  “Because I do not know Sitting Bull and Two Wolves does. I know you and Two Wolves does not.”

  Fat Bear grunted and nodded his head, accepting that as logical. He walked away, disappearing into the village. A moment later he returned and waved Bodine toward him. “Big Face will give you a few minutes. Come.”

  When Bodine saw that no pipe was present, he knew that he was not trusted and that this was not going to be a terribly friendly meeting. At least not at first. He was going to have to be convincing, and do it quickly.

  Big Face had the tribe’s medicine man with him, as well as a dozen sub-chiefs. Fat Bear sat down beside Bodine and looked at him. “Speak, Bo-dine.”

  “I believe that certain white men are going to try to trick the Crow and the Sioux. The Sioux have plans to attack the Crow here in your camp. An attack by the Sioux would not be unexpected, and you and your braves would surely win the battle, killing the Sioux.” They probably would not win, but once again, Bodine practiced ego-stroking.

  “How are white men going to try and trick us, Bodine?” Big Face asked. “And why? We have been friends with the whites for many years.”

  “Because of that friendship. And these white men that I speak of want you all—every Indian, everywhere—to be confined to reservations. They do not want you to be allowed to leave the reservations to hunt. They want your lands. And they want you to declare war against the white settlers, to drive them out, so their land can be taken over by greedy men.”

  “That may be why. Now the how of it.”

  Bodine explained about the theft of uniforms, cannons, and the Gatling gun. He carefully explained about the Army expedition on the Yellowstone, and that the soldiers were exploring, not hunting war.

  Big Face thought for a moment. “It is a good plan,” he finally admitted. “Before the real soldiers get here, the fake pony soldiers will attack us, killing many, and we will think the Army has turned on us. It would be their hope that the Crow and the Sioux would become as one against the whites. It is a good plan, but it is also a silly plan. The Crow and the Sioux will never be friends. When we meet, we fight. It has been that way forever; The People Who Came Before Us fought the Sioux.”

  “This is truth. But I know that Big Face and his warriors are giant people, and they can see the wisdom in putting aside their hatred for a month to make sure this silly plan will fail.”

  “Oh, of course, we would do that. The Crow are not only braver, but much wiser than the Sioux. But would the Unkpapa and the Ogalalla do the same?”

  “That is what my brother, Two Wolves, will try to arrange when he gets to the Sioux camp in the morning.”

  “How do we know we can trust you, Bodine?”

  “You don’t. But here is what I will do: If an agreement can be made between the Crow and the Sioux not to fight during this period of exploration, I will ride to intercept the Army on the river and tell them of the plan; tell them of the fake soldiers and what they plan to do. Your scouts and the Sioux scouts can find the fake soldiers and the Army can arrest them. I will then return here, and here I will stay, in this camp, until it is over. I can offer you no more than my life.”

  “And Two Wolves?”

  “I walk only in my moccasins. I cannot speak for another man.”

  “This is truth. Only a fool tries to put words in another’s mouth. Leave us, Bodine. We will talk this out. A tipi has been readied for you. Rest. We will call you when we have decided.”

  * * *

  “It is a trap!” Lone Dog said, his eyes boring into the eyes of Two Wolves.

  “Wait!” Sitting Bull held up a hand. “I think it is not a trick. Bodine has gone to the camp of the dungeaters, where he is not welcomed and not liked . . .”

  “We don’t know that!” Lone Dog interrupted the great and respected Unkpapa medicine man.

  “You would not be able to speak to me in such a manner if your tongue were removed and then fed to the coyotes,” Sitting Bull told him, acid in his words. “Must this come to be?”

  Lone Dog shook his head and shut his mouth.

  The Ogalalla chief, Crazy Horse, said, “Two Wolves is a man of truth, like his father, Medicine Horse. I believe him. This would be something that Tom Thomas would do. I think that in a very few months, the town of Cutter will be no more.”

  “It is nothing but a rotten mass of maggots anyway,” Two Wolves said. “It will not be missed.”

  “I shall lead the attack against this Tom Thomas and the den of thieves at Cutter,” Lone Dog proclaimed.

  “But for now,” Crazy Horse put him down with one sentence, “see to the needs of Two Wolves’ horse.”

  All the Sioux sub-chiefs seated around the leaders put their hands to their mouths to hide their laughter. Lone Dog stalked away, his back stiff with anger. The pipe was lit and passed around.

  Sitting Bull said, “One good laugh is not enough for a day. Two Wolves, tell us again how He-Who-Falls-Down-A-Lot got his name . . .”

  The boy was a good three miles from his folks’ small ranch and farm, even though his dad had told him time and again not to stray more than a whoop and holler from the house. But when you’re a young boy with a fast pony, it’s awful hard to stay tied to mom’s apron strings when there was so much country that just about yells at a fellow to come investigate. Besides, hadn’t his dad said he wished he had another hand to help with the place?

  Matthew might be only ten years old, but he figured he could ride with the best of them, and his little paint pony could fly.

  So Matthew set out to practice his roping on some cows. But he found a wild, skinny Indian before he came to the herd.

  Well, sort of a wild Indian. But he was skinny-looking.

  The Indian’s pony had stepped into a prairie dog hole and went head over hocks, breaking its neck when it landed, and pinning the Indian under its body.

  At least Matthew thought it was an Indian. The boy trapped beneath the dead horse was brown like an Indian and had dark hair. But there was something about the face that didn’t ring true with the other Indians that Matthew had seen. The boy also wore a necklace of three multi-colored stones, pierced with a leather thong. The boy’s eyes was open, and they wasn’t blinkin’none. But they were dark like an Indian’s.

  Whatever the tribe, the boy looked dead to Matthew. First dead person he’d ever seen this close up. Except for old man Becket. He’d been gettin’some relief in the outhouse when a cyclone c
ome up. Pa said he reckoned the old man had died of a heart attack. Wasn’t a mark on him.

  But his dad had said you sometimes couldn’t trust an Indian. They’d fake you up close and then jump up and stick a knife in you.

  “Hey!” Matthew yelled. “Are you dead?”

  The dark eyes shifted, watching him. The Indian boy said nothing.

  “All right. So you ain’t dead. What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

  The boy spat at Matthew.

  “My dad was right. You’re all savages!” Matthew yelled at him.

  “No! Cheyenne!”

  The words came out quickly, with practically no accent. And that startled Matthew. “Indians don’t talk American like Americans. But this one did and he sure understood me. That was odd.” It was then that Matthew began adding things up, such as, if there was one Indian, it stood to reason that there was more around somewheres.

  He stood up in his stirrups and looked all around him. But he could not see anything past the first of the rolling hills. He looked back at the Indian boy. “Is your leg busted?”

  The Cheyenne stared at Matthew for a moment. “Broken? No. Trapped.”

  “You speak good English. All right, so your leg ain’t broke, just trapped.” Matthew slid off his pony and walked up to the boy. But not close enough for the boy to make a grab at him.

  “If I had any sense, I’d hightail back to the house and get my pa.”

  “No! What’s the matter—are you afraid of me?”

  “I ain’t skirred of nothing.”

  “Medicine Horse say whites tremble like old women when the Cheyenne come around.”

  “Medicine Horse? Is that your pa’s name?”

  “Yes. Great chief.”

  Matthew turned around and walked back to his horse.

  “You leave me?” the Indian boy called.

  “No.” Matthew took a canteen from the saddle horn and walked back to the trapped boy. He knelt down and held out the canteen. “You want a drink?”

  The boy grunted and took the canteen, pulling the plug and drinking deeply. He nodded his head in thanks and handed the canteen to Matthew. Matthew hesitated, then drank without wiping it clean. The Indian watched him closely.

  Matthew corked the canteen. “How long you been here?”

  “Dawn.”

  It was about ten o’clock. Long time to be trapped under a dead horse.

  “How come it is your folks ain’t lookin’for you?”

  “They look. No find.”

  “Why didn’t you holler for them?”

  The boy’s smile was thin. “So white men can find me and kill me? No.”

  “My dad wouldn’t have hurt you!”

  “I don’t know that.” He smiled again. “But I see your pony and come to steal it.”

  “Steal my horse! But you got a horse. Had a horse.”

  “Want more.”

  “It’s wrong to steal.”

  “Not from your enemy.”

  “I’m not your enemy.”

  The boy grunted. “Maybe not. We see.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Two Wolves.”

  “I’m Matthew. Call me Matt. Look here, Two Wolves, I get you out; what you gonna do?”

  “Join people.”

  “But where are they?”

  “I know where. I find.”

  Matthew sat back on his heels and thought for a moment.

  “Let me have your knife.”

  “Why?”

  “I gotta dig a trench so’s you can pull your leg free! You gotta trust somebody sometime, don’t you?”

  Two Wolves thought for a long moment, then slowly pulled a long-bladed knife from a beaded sheath and handed it to Matthew. Matthew went to work, being careful not to cut the swollen leg of Two Wolves. So intent was he in his work, he did not hear the horses walk up the hill, the riders to sit their mounts on the crest of the knoll and watch.

  But Two Wolves saw them.

  Matthew was sweating by the time he finished. “OK,” he panted. “Let’s give ’er a try, Two Wolves.”

  Between the two of them, one pushing and the other pulling, Two Wolves pulled his leg free and lay back on the grass, clearly in a great deal of pain. It showed in his eyes; his face was emotionless.

  Matthew handed the knife back to Two Wolves, handle first. The Indian boy managed a smile and sheathed the blade.

  “How you gonna walk, Two Wolves? Look here, lemme get you on my horse and take you home with me. Ma can take a look at that leg.”

  “I will not have to walk, Matthew.”

  ‘Well, how you gonna get home, fly?”

  “Ride with them.” Two Wolves pointed.

  Matthew whirled around, lost his balance in all the loose dirt, and fell on his butt. He stared in horror at a dozen or more Indians sitting their ponies on the crest of a hill. The Indians were smiling at the antics of the white boy. They slowly walked their ponies down the hill, leaving one brave to watch the house, far in the distance. The Indians carried old muskets, spears, and bows, with quivers of arrows on their backs.

  Matthew almost peed his longhandles. He tried to stand up in the loose dirt, and fell down again.

  A handsome brave wearing three feathers in a beaded headband walked his horse up to Matthew and Two Wolves. “He saved your life,” the brave spoke in perfect English.

  “You would have found me long before I died. So it doesn’t count.”

  “But it does. I have spoken.” He looked at Matthew, his obsidian eyes not giving much away. But there was a definite twinkle in those dark eyes. He spoke to Two Wolves in his native tongue.

  The boy climbed painfully to his feet. Matthew turned to help and Two Wolves waved him back. He hobbled to the brave and grabbed onto the man’s outstretched arm, swinging up behind him.

  The man stared long at Matthew. “I am Medicine Horse. Chief of the Cheyenne. A life saved is a life owed.” He removed a necklace identical to Two Wolves and tossed it to Matthew.

  Matthew fell down catching it.

  Medicine Horse laughed and said, “Ride safe among us. I shall call you He-Who-Falls-Down-A-lot.”

  Chapter 6

  It was a meeting that would have gone down in the history books—if any historians had been aware of it. Big Face sent Fat Bear and the Sioux sent Running Man to meet in Lost Valley. Big Face said if he even looked at a Sioux it would be so disgusting a sight, his head would hurt for a week, and Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull both agreed that for men of their position to look upon the ugliness of any Crow except a dead one would be infinitely worse than stepping barefoot into a fresh pile of buffalo dung.

  The two sub-chiefs of the Sioux and the Crow sat with their backs to each other and talked.

  “I sit this way because I do not want my eyes contaminated by the sight of that bloated pig,” Running Man said.

  “I sit this way because I do not want my eyes to be forever crossed by gazing—however briefly—on the ugliness of a Sioux pus-face!” Fat Bear said.

  “Now that we have most of the pleasantries out of the way,” Two Wolves commented dryly, “would anyone care to smoke the pipe?”

  Running Man spat on the ground and made a horrible face.

  “I would rather kiss a vulture,” Fat Bear said.

  Bodine shrugged his shoulders. “You both know why we are here. Is it agreed that the Crow and the Sioux will not fight during the time of the Army expedition on the Yellowstone?”

  “Big Face has agreed to this.”

  “Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull have agreed to this.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to shake hands on this?” Two Wolves asked.

  With their backs to one another, the men stuck their hands out and shook hands with the air. Both men then vigorously wiped their hands on the grass.

  “Is this all?” Running Man asked.

  “The pact is agreed upon,” Bodine told them.

  “Good,” Fat Bear said. “The smell of that ro
tting coyote is very offensive to me.”

  “Likewise, the smell of cowardice is nearly overpowering, Running Man countered.

  “You must be sniffing at yourself,” Fat Bear told him.

  “That’s it!” Two Wolves stepped in before the one-minute-old peace could be broken. “This meeting is concluded.”

  The Crow and the Sioux stood up and walked to their horses and rode away. Not once did they look back at each other.

  “Whew!” Bodine said, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead. “I’d a never believed it.”

  “As soon as the Army leaves the Yellowstone, they’ll be back at war.”

  “Just as long as we can help trap those phony soldiers and perhaps expose Tom Thomas, they can go back to fighting.”

  “Where will you intercept the Army?”

  “They left on May 26th. This is the 29th, unless my reckoning is wrong. I can’t be seen in any towns; Thomas may have people looking for anything out of the ordinary. I’ll intercept them between the Tongue and the Rosebud.”

  “Do you have to return to the Crow camp?”

  “No. I offered to, but Big Face said it was not necessary. As soon as I tip off the Army, I’ll get word to you—somehow—and you can join me.”

  “You want me to roam around between the camps and make sure the agreement is not violated?”

  “I’d appreciate it. Do you think Lone Dog is going to cause any trouble?”

  “Yes. Just as soon as the Army leaves the Yellowstone. I’m convinced that Lone Dog will break with Sitting Bull and start attacking the settlers. I don’t think we can stop him. And the town of Cutter is going to be wiped from the face of the map, Brother.”

  “That’s firm?”

  “As firm as a rock.”

  Bodine stood up from his squat. “I’m going to be traveling fast. I’ll take only a few supplies and leave the rest with you.”

  “Ride safe, Brother.”

  * * *

  Bodine rode the north side of the Yellowstone, heading east for the mouth of the Rosebud. He planned to avoid all the little settlements that had sprung up on the Yellowstone. Rowdy’s breaking a shoe changed all that. On foot, leading Rowdy, Bodine walked into a small village and up to the blacksmith shop.