by Judd Cole
“If the damned Indian lovers back East hadn’t tied my hands in Congress, I would by God put paid to it now, Carlson, and make this region safe for white women like Jeanette to travel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But even if that damned Laramie Accord forbids a major command offensive, it permits punitive actions away from the wagon road right of way. That’s where your new company comes in, Carlson. Damn it, Soldier Blue, find those heathen Cheyennes and kill every man, woman, and child! That’s an order!”
“Yes, sir. We’ve been trying.”
“My grandmother tries, Carlson. You don’t seem to understand me here. It’s not just the fact that those mother-rutting savages almost killed my wife. The War Department is giving me six sorts of hell, not to mention the local vigilantes who cry about how soft the Army is on Indians. So help me Hannah, I want those red devils exterminated. Your unit’s been crackerjack when it comes to routing out Mandans and such. Why so much trouble with one raggedy-assed band of Cheyennes?”
Carlson felt the irony of his situation. The plan to blame stagecoach and freight-wagon attacks on Cheyennes had served two very useful purposes: It made him rich, and it built a strong case to justify his eventual slaughter of Shoots Left Handed and his band, thus appeasing Carlson’s vendetta against Matthew Hanchon and the Cheyenne nation.
So in the beginning, he had deliberately not tried to wipe out the band quickly. Their continued existence guaranteed scapegoats for the attacks by Woodrow Denton and his gun-throwers. But when the pressure to punish the Cheyennes had finally mounted, the band had slipped off to more remote regions. Now they had to be tracked down. But scouts were on the trail and due to report any day now.
Lofley turned to the map and jabbed at it with an angry index finger.
“Look at this region, Carlson. We’re responsible for thousands of square miles of mountains and forests and canyons so deep you can’t see the bottoms on a clear day. I have one special mountain company—yours—outfitted for the field. The rest are regular cavalry.
“Does anyone care that the goddamn manual says twenty-five miles a day is the maximum for the regular cavalry? I said twenty-five miles a day. And we’re locking horns with Indians who ride with as many as five remounts on their string, remounts as clever and well-trained as circus ponies. They carry nothing but their weapons, they live on bark and insects if they have to, and they ride up to eighty miles a day.”
Carlson mechanically said his “yes, sir” again, his eyes glazing over. Lofley was a bitter man with an ax to grind. He had repeated all of this so often he sounded like a salivating bible-thumper.
Finally he dismissed his subordinate. But as Carlson was about to escape through the office door, Lofley called his name.
“Sir?”
“You know the Officer Promotion Board meets next month at Fort Union?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have enough time in grade. If I sign the recommendation, the promotion to major is almost guaranteed.”
Carlson nodded, liking what he was hearing.
“I also know how bad you want to get transferred back East. Just remember, appointment to major makes you a field-grade officer. That means you post out to a new command. I can’t guarantee the East. But if you were to exterminate these Cheyennes, that would give you a Letter of Merit in your file, maybe even a Letter of Commendation. That would strengthen your request considerably.”
Carlson nodded again, liking it even better. The scheme with the attacks was about played out anyway. If he could not only kill his enemies, the Cheyenne, but also earn a promotion and a transfer, so much the better.
“They shot my wife,” Lofley repeated before he dismissed him. “Carlson, kill those damn hostiles. And bring me their scalps to show the paper-collar newspaper boys!”
~*~
“Goes Ahead should have returned by now,” the battle chief named Pawnee Killer said.
He, Touch the Sky, and Little Horse were crossing toward the tipi of White Plume. The tribe elders had agreed with Touch the Sky that a Renewal of the Arrows should be held immediately; any strategy to combat Bluecoats or the highway raiders was doomed to fail without good magic.
Goes Ahead had been sent south to Powder River with news of this disaster. He was to have returned immediately, circling by way of Fort Randall to scout the soldier’s activity.
“If enemies have slain him,” Pawnee Killer added, “our tribe has lost a warrior who fights like ten men.”
It was mid-morning of Touch the Sky’s first full day in the high-altitude camp. Nights in the Bear Paws were cold, and he had shivered even in the depths of his shaggy buffalo robe. The cries of the hungry children were piteous. In the morning he and Little Horse had refused their portion of cooked meat, knowing it was horse flesh. They’d subsisted on the last of the pemmican and dried fruit in their sashes.
Now, as they picked their way across the sloping, rock-strewn ground, Touch the Sky glanced warily all around them. The camp seemed safely located, at first glance. They were deep in the lee of a sheltered ridge, cut off from sunshine but also from sight below. Three approaches were blocked by cliffs, landslides, and steep escarpments of rock. Night and day vigilant sentries watched the only path leading into camp.
All seemed secure enough. Yet during the night Touch the Sky had followed Arrow Keeper’s advice: He had closed his mind to all thought and simply listened to the language of his senses. And then abruptly, like being plunged naked into a snowbank, his entire body had felt a bone-numbing chill of premonition.
Some danger lurked near this camp. He was sure of it. Lurked very near. And Little Horse, who had long ago recognized his friend’s big medicine and the mulberry birthmark buried in his hair as the mark of the warrior—he too saw this knowledge in Touch the Sky’s troubled dark eyes.
Something else had plagued him during the cold, windy night—a gnawing in his belly as sharp as a rat’s incisors. For how could he forget that Honey Eater was living with a man who was on the feather edge of killing her? Leaving her with Black Elk was like deserting her in a grizzly’s den.
But he forced his thoughts back to the here and now when the group of braves reached White Plume’s tipi. White Plume, a brave with perhaps fifty winters behind him, looked at the two visitors with genuine respect when he learned Arrow Keeper had sent them. He ushered them into his tipi. His wife filled a clay pipe for them. Then she discreetly ducked outside to visit her clan while the men counseled over their important business.
“You are a shaman?” White Plume asked Touch the Sky after all had smoked to the directions.
He shook his head. “I assist Arrow Keeper at the ceremonies, and he is teaching me the shaman arts.”
White Plume was satisfied with this response. “I know Arrow Keeper, buck. When I was a limber sapling even younger than you, he was once my battle chief in a fight against Crows. With so many arrows in him he looked like a porcupine, he rallied thirty Cheyennes to victory against twice as many stub-hands. If he chose you to assist him, this means you surely have the gift of visions and are blessed with strong medicine. He would not have chosen you otherwise.”
He did not press the issue. It was understood among Indians that spiritual matters were powerful and mostly private. A person who possessed the gift of visions was not expected to speak of this thing, nor were others welcome to mention it.
White Plume crossed to the rear of his tipi and lifted aside a flat buffalo-hide saddle he’d won in a pony race with a Dakota. He pulled aside a blanket, then returned with a soft coyote-fur pouch.
All four men fell silent as he unwrapped the Medicine Arrows in the flickering firelight. There were four of them, painted in bright blue and yellow stripes and fletched with scarlet feathers. Ten sets in all existed, one for each of the ten bands of the Shaiyena nation.
Arrow Keeper had explained carefully how the secret of the Arrows had first been revealed to the people by the High Holy Ones who lived in the northern l
ights, The Land Where the Food Comes From. The fate of the Arrows was the fate of the entire tribe. Therefore, it was the Arrow Keeper’s solemn responsibility to not only protect them with his life, but to keep them forever sweet and clean. Certain serious crimes—such as murder and adultery—stained the Arrows and thus the tribe. The Renewal of the Arrows was held to cleanse them after a crime or to strengthen them before a battle.
In the presence of the Arrows, Touch the Sky unconsciously lowered his voice. “Tell your warriors,” he said to Pawnee Killer, “to paint and dress and bring their gifts to the Arrows. But tell the rest too to bring gifts. The entire tribe must renew its medicine and dance.”
Pawnee Killer nodded, but his voice was heavy with doubt. “I will certainly tell my warriors, Touch the Sky. What few remain to us. Arrow Keeper is right, our strong medicine must be renewed. But medicine or no, this new Bluecoat mountain troop, they are wild and crazy like dogs in the hot moons. If our camp is located one more time, there will be one less band of Cheyenne.”
~*~
The Cheyenne brave died hard.
Rough Feather, a huge Ute scout employed by Fort Randall, had nearly been taken by surprise. For many sleeps now, Rough Feather had painstakingly hunted down this camp. The Utes were a mountain tribe, nimble as goats and highly useful to the U.S. Army. After numerous false starts and miles of useless back-tracking, he had finally gained sight of Shoots Left Handed’s camp.
Eluding the sentries in the gathering twilight had been tricky and required long patience. Finally, after crawling on his belly for hours over rocks, he knew right where the heart of camp was. He made a mental picture of everything so Carlson could plan a precise strike: the layout of the tipis, the number and location of sentries, any possible escape routes.
That Captain Carlson, thought Rough Feather—here was no white devil to fool with. The motto of his Indian-fighting company was known to every tribe in the region: Take no prisoners! The Utes had seen this coming early on, and wisely decided to nail their streamers to the Bluecoat mast.
Thinking all of these things, intent on looking ahead at the camp, he had almost missed the approach of a rider behind him.
The young Cheyenne did not spot him until he was almost on him. His pony suddenly snorted and pulled up short, tossing its head violently. In a heartbeat the Cheyenne’s streamered lance was raised for the throw.
Rough Feather was faster. There was already a jagged rock in his hand. The big Ute rose to his feet and sent it flying hard. It chunked into the Cheyenne’s forehead with an ominous sound of bone splitting. He slid from his pony like a heavy sack of grain. Moments later the young buck’s moccasined heels futilely scratched the dirt as Rough Feather’s French dagger opened his throat from ear to ear.
Rough Feather cursed this bad luck. He wiped his blade in the grass, then quickly hobbled the pony to keep it from wandering on into camp. But hiding the body, this close to camp and with such barren ground cover, was not worth the risk. Now he would have to leave immediately.
But soon Rough Feather calmed down. After all, even though the raggedy band would be alerted, what could they do? They were at the end of their tether. Moving an entire camp was a major enterprise. So many sick elders and infants made it far harder. Now they were trapped between the last mountain strongholds and the approaching Bluecoats.
Even as Rough Feather began to ease back down the trail, the night wind rose to a shriek like the howl of wolves mating.
Chapter Five
That night, while young women kept time with stone-filled gourds, everyone in Shoots Left Handed’s band danced at the Renewal of the Arrows ceremony.
Touch the Sky directed that even the outlying sentries should be relieved long enough to join the dance. He had feared, at first, that the people would be too weak from hunger to dance. But hunger did not matter once the rhythmic cadence of stones and the steady “Hi-ya, hii-ya,” chant started sounding. Everyone old enough to dance was soon circling a well-hidden ceremonial fire.
Touch the Sky watched them, his clay-painted face gruesome, yet magnificent, in the wavering glow of the fire. Their knees kicked high, higher, the starvation-lean bodies wrapped in furs against the mountain chill. And as they danced their misery out of them, hunger made the trance-state happen faster.
For a moment, watching them, Touch the Sky felt the power of his epic vision at Medicine Lake. Again the images were laid over his eyes: He saw red men, thousands of them from every tribe west of the river called Great Waters, all dancing as one people, dancing out their misery and fear and utter hopelessness. And on the horizon behind them, guidons snapping in the wind, sabers gleaming in the blood-red sun, the approaching hordes of blue-bloused soldiers.
When all seems lost, the voice of the dead Chief Yellow Bear had warned him, become your enemy. Touch the Sky felt the bitter sting of the present irony. Clearly, an enemy of the Cheyenne had become them.
After the dance, Touch the Sky unwrapped the Medicine Arrows and laid them on a stump in the center of camp. He had donned his mountain-lion skin, a gift from Arrow Keeper. It had been blessed with strong medicine, the shaman insisted. Touch the Sky could not swear to this. But he had worn it during a vicious Comanche raid, drawing all their fire onto himself, and not one bullet or arrow had found his flesh.
For this ceremony, he had painted his face as Cheyenne braves paint for war: forehead yellow, nose red, chin black. He also wore his single-horned war bonnet, its tail long with coup feathers. As the tribe lined up to leave their gifts to the Arrows, the crying of hungry babes rose to join the keening wail of the night wind. The misery of this people was evident in their lean bodies and empty stares.
For this reason, Touch the Sky recited the sacred Renewal Prayer in his clearest, most powerful voice, a voice meant to inspire the people with hope:
Oh, Great Spirit of Maiyun,
whose voice we hear in the winds,
and whose breath gives life to all the world,
hear us! We are small and weak, we need
your strength and wisdom,
“Let this be so,” the people said as one.
Let us walk in beauty, and make our eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset.
Make our hearts respect the things you have made and our ears sharp to hear your voice.
Make us wise that we may understand the things you have taught the people.
“Let this be so,” the others repeated.
Let us learn the lessons you have hidden
in every leaf and rock.
We seek strength, not to be greater than our
brothers, but to fight our greatest enemy
—ourselves.
Make us always ready to come, to you with
clean hands and straight eyes.
“Let this be so,” the tribe sang as one.
Now Touch the Sky’s voice rose above the shrieking of the wind, concluding the Renewal Prayer in a powerful tone that echoed down-ridge.
So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
our spirits may come to you without shame.
A long, profound silence followed the prayer. Then Touch the Sky’s voice again rang out: “Cheyenne people! The Arrows have been renewed! Now leave your gifts!”
One by one, every member of the tribe with more than twelve winters behind him knelt beside the Arrows to leave a sacrifice. The tribe’s desperate situation was mirrored in the value of the gifts. Though everyone left something, there were no valuable pelts, no rich tobacco, few weapons. Instead, there were brightly dyed feathers, decorated coup sticks, moccasins with beaded soles.
The last gift had just been placed near the stump when there was a frightened shout from the direction of the only entrance to camp.
Everyone stared toward the narrow path. One of the sentries, who had been relieved and was riding into camp to leave his gift, frantically beckoned to them. As one, the tribe hurried across to him.
Darkness had descended, but a full moon owned the un
clouded sky. The dead brave, Goes Ahead, was clear in the luminous white moonlight. He lay sprawled on his back, arms far-flung, his neck opened up like a second mouth. His pony was hobbled nearby. The huge gash in Goes Ahead’s forehead told how he had been dropped from his pony.
Raven’s Wing, the dead brave’s young bride, cried out. She dropped beside her man and blindly groped for a sharp piece of flint in the rough dirt. No one stopped her when she began savagely gouging her arms with it, drawing ribbons of blood. But several of her clan sisters automatically formed a ring around her, blocking access to more serious weapons.
A few other Cheyennes made the cut-off sign while an old grandmother began keening in grief for the fallen youth.
Touch the Sky and Little Horse locked glances in the moonlight. The awful significance of this death, so near camp and the time of the sacred Renewal, could not be denied.
Shoots Left Handed and Pawnee Killer were clearly thinking the same thing. They crossed to join the young Cheyennes.
“The Arrows have been renewed,” Shoots Left Handed said. “Good. It was a good ceremony, a good prayer. But clearly, Goes Ahead did not fall on his knife. He was murdered. That means our camp has been discovered yet again. Our enemy knows where we are—soon comes the attack!”
~*~
Touch the Sky and Little Horse shared a tipi provided by Pawnee Killer’s clan. They slept little that night, counseling over this new trouble.
“We have been bearded in our den,” Touch the Sky said. “Whoever sent Goes Ahead under, he was able to slip past a tight ring of experienced Cheyenne sentries. What does this tell you, buck?”
