Sun Dance

by John J. McLaglen

  A young Lieutenant opened the door and looked at Carey and Herne. He was in his early twenties and his uniform looked as if it had that morning been delivered from a tailor in Washington. His neat mustache had recently been clipped; every hair was in place. Every button gleamed.

  Herne noticed Carey look at the man as though he had slithered out from under a stone.

  The Lieutenant marched away, boots sounding clipped on the floor. Carey walked through the open door and Herne followed him.

  Colonel Phillip M. Bradley looked up from behind his desk. He was a sallow-cheeked man with a slight cast in his right eye. His lips were no more than a suggestion of the thinnest of lines beneath his nose. His mid-brown hair was receding at the temples and jutted out behind his ears.

  The top buttons of his coat were unfastened and an elongated Adam’s apple hung over a white collarless shirt. The silver oak leaves on his epaulettes were dull and slightly tarnished.

  The disfigured eye blinked.

  ‘You Herne?’ His voice sounded tired, as if he had been sitting there behind that desk or others like it for too long. It wouldn’t be long before he would be joining Carey in retirement and the young Lieutenant from West Point who had just left would be pushing for his post

  ‘Yes.’

  Colonel Bradley hesitated, as if wondering whether the abrupt sound of Herne’s reply was worth a reprimand. But he let it pass.

  ‘You’ve served the United States army as a civilian scout before?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel. Forts Craig and Stanton, east of the Rio Grande.’

  ‘I know where the military installations of the Department of Texas are situated,’ the Colonel interrupted irritably.

  Herne glanced at Carey, who looked away.

  ‘Fort Bowie, too. Under Major...’

  Bradley waved Herne silent with a hand that was surprisingly smooth-looking and white. ‘Carey here’s told you what’s required?’

  Herne nodded.

  ‘Lieutenant Patten will be in charge of the escorting party.’

  It was Carey’s turn to glance at Herne and nod backwards in the direction of the door.

  ‘He’s newly stationed here from West Point and it will be good experience for him. Patten is heading for the top, a promising officer—at least…’ Bradley pushed some papers across his desk. ‘… he’s well-connected.’ The Colonel coughed hollowly into the back of one of his white hands. ‘But he hasn’t had experience with Indians. Of course, most of my men have, not with the Sioux but with the Apache. Like yourself, I daresay.’

  Colonel Bradley looked up at Herne. ‘I shall expect you to help the Lieutenant in any way you can. Act as a liaison between him and the Indians if necessary. Above all make sure they get back to the agency peaceably.’

  He spread his hands on the desk. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  Herne waited a couple of seconds. Then: ‘Yes, Colonel. You make yourself clear.’

  ‘Right. Carey will take care of your horse, find you a bunk. You can draw army ammunition if you wish. The Lieutenant will want to leave at first light.’ The hand waved dismissal. ‘That’s all.’

  Herne turned on his heels and walked out with Carey following.

  ‘You don’t seem to think much of the star rating from West Point,’ observed Herne a few minutes later as they were unsaddling their mounts.

  Carey hawked and spat on to the dusty ground where the ball of yellowish spittle rolled and clung to the thin dirt. ‘He may be awful good at polishing his buttons and buckles an’ passin’ examinations an’ marchin’ at the front of some fool parade, but I wouldn’t trust that boy t’catch my shit if’n he was standing underneath my ass!’

  Herne lifted the saddle clear and set it on the ground. ‘Well, that sounds just fine. No wonder you was pleased to fetch me ’stead of goin’ yourself.’

  Carey chuckled and spat some more.

  ‘Unless you got any objections, I reckon I’ll wander round to where they Sioux are camped. Have a word with Chief Morning Cloud.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But that’s what I’d do.’

  Herne grinned. ‘Guess it must be okay, then. You want to come along?’

  Carey shook his head. ‘Not me. I’ll take a rest out of this damned sun. You’re on the army payroll now, you’d best earn some money.’

  Herne nodded and stroked a hand along his horse’s neck.

  ~*~

  Morning Cloud sat cross-legged on the ground. His face was dark brown, almost wizened; his black hair was parted at the center and held down at the sides. He wore a buckskin shirt, the long collar and sleeves of which were decorated with a pattern of colored beads arranged into bars and boxes. The hair at the edges of the shirt had been left uncut. His breech cloth was decorated with alternating strips of colored material, red and green and blue and at its center a buffalo’s head had been worked in amber beads.

  Beneath the breech cloth the Chief wore buckskin leggings and a pair of moccasins with the hair side turned outwards.

  ‘You are Chief Morning Cloud, renowned for wisdom amongst the Oglala Sioux.’

  The Chief motioned for Herne to sit opposite him. He called to one of his braves, who returned with a long stemmed pipe, already lit. Morning Cloud drew on the pipe, letting the smoke drift slowly away and up towards the unrelieved blue of the sky.

  He passed the pipe across to Herne, who accepted it with a small bow of the head. The bowl of the pipe was wide and deep, shaped into the form of a running buffalo; the horns, eyes and mouth were carved with perfect clarity.

  ‘My name is Herne. Among my people I am known as Herne the Hunter.’

  The Chief nodded his head once. ‘My own people have for many seasons been known as hunters. Now there is nothing left for us to hunt. Nowhere for us to ride. The white man fences us in like cattle. Makes us live in cabins, in tents of canvas. Now we are hunters no longer. We are men of straw only.’

  ‘I know this and am sorry for it.’

  Morning Cloud looked deep into Herne’s face. ‘I believe it to be so. But you, what do you hunt? The buffalo? The Indian?’

  Herne hesitated, passed back the pipe. ‘I have hunted both,’ he agreed ‘I have hunted the Apache. He is a brave and clever warrior.’

  ‘That is true. And so is the Sioux.’

  ‘I know it. And none more so than the Oglala.’

  Morning Cloud gave the single nod of his head again. ‘You are not hunting us now?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I am to lead you back to Wakpala, to the reservation.’

  ‘So,’ said Morning Cloud resignedly. ‘Back to the white man’s prison, where we will be starved and cheated once more.’

  ‘But you have given your word. You have agreed to take your people back in peace.’

  The Chief drew on the pipe and passed it back to Herne. ‘I agreed to this because the leader of the soldiers showed me how strong he was. If I had ridden on all of my people would have been killed. So we go back.’ He gazed up at the sky. ‘Soon I shall die myself. It is of little matter.’

  ‘Morning Cloud will live many moons yet.’

  The lie hung between them like smoke.

  ‘Did the Colonel say nothing about your treatment at the Agency?’ asked Herne.

  ‘He promised we would receive the food and blankets that were sent to us. But the white man’s promise is hollow. It comes only from the tongue, not the heart.’

  Morning Cloud placed his fist on the left side of his shirt.

  ‘My promises to you are not hollow,’ said Herne. ‘I will ride with you. If your people are peaceful, nothing shall harm you. You have my word.’

  The Chief looked at Herne but he was not seeing him. He was seeing a morning long past when he had been young and the grass had been fresh and green and buffalo had roamed the plains in vast herds.

  For several minutes the two men sat in silence. From one of the tents a young child set up an agitated cry and then was silenced. The smell of wood smoke drifted by Herne’s nose. He co
uld hear horses being ridden at the other side of the stockade.

  When Morning Cloud spoke it was as if from a dream of another world. ‘You have given your word. I give mine. We shall ride with you in peace.’

  Herne stood up. There were half a dozen young Sioux watching him from thirty yards away. A young squaw who was heavy with child sat before one of the tents, pounding grain inside a wooden bowl.

  ‘We shall leave with the rising of the sun.’

  He turned slowly away and walked along the stockade, past its edge and back into the Fort.

  Chapter Three

  The blur of light on the eastern horizon was golden orange easing into purple at the edges where the last shreds of night still lingered. The air struck cold and a wind moved over the land blowing across the Missouri and carrying the faint smell of water.

  The band of Oglala Sioux were ready outside the Fort. Arranged in uneven lines with Morning Cloud at their head, they waited. Men on ponies, men on foot, women and small children standing behind them. Their few belongings were piled on to travois which would be dragged on poles behind the ponies.

  Behind Morning Cloud a brave held a drum in the fork of his left arm and beat upon it with a crooked stick. One note, slow, monotonous, repetitive.

  On and on and on.

  Herne had been awake since before dawn; had got himself and his mount ready while the Sioux were making their own preparations. Now he sat astride the animal, hat pushed back on his head, waiting also. The Colt was oiled and cleaned and loaded in his holster. The Sharps pushed down into its scabbard. Inside the sheath in his right boot, the honed bayonet blade he had carried since the war between the states.

  Herne saw the Lieutenant first, then the soldiers of the platoon, leading their mounts reluctantly across the parade ground. Sixteen men including himself. The soldiers were armed with army-issue Colt .45s, Springfield carbines and cavalry sabers.

  Herne watched them form a single line for the Lieutenant’s inspection. With a scowl of annoyance he saw that the Sergeant was Chance Lattimer, his sandy hair and damaged ear unmistakable even in the dim light of the early morning.

  He scanned the line, recognizing the Corporal who had been with Chance in the dining room in Shields. Two of the Privates could have been the ones from the saloon but he couldn’t be sure. Not yet.

  ‘Form a column of twos!’ ordered the Lieutenant.

  ‘Column of twos!’ roared Sergeant Lattimer.

  The men moved slowly into place.

  ‘Prepare to move out!’

  ‘Prepare to move out!’

  Lieutenant Patten rode a few yards towards Herne, ‘Are the Indians ready to move?’

  Herne nodded. ‘Ready, Lieutenant.’

  The young officer raised his gloved hand. ‘Move out!’

  Herne rode towards the Sioux. Morning Cloud sat upright on his pony’s back, not looking anywhere but straight ahead. As Herne was almost to him, he pushed his heels into the animal’s side and set it in motion. The rest of the band followed.

  The cavalry divided into two groups: the Lieutenant and six of the men in front, Sergeant Chance Lattimer and the rest bringing up the rear.

  Herne kept a place alongside the Sioux and in between the soldiers. There had been no sign from the Sergeant that he had recognized Herne, but Herne knew that he had. And he remembered the soldier’s threat.

  As they rode the Indian kept up the single note of the drum.

  Mile after mile after mile.

  The trail kept close to the banks of the Missouri, flanked on the left by trees which were alternately spaced out in well-defined lines or gathered into tight clusters. The plain which spread away to the west was arid, the grass yellowing and brittle. Underfoot the earth was baked. Far off, beyond the plain, they could see the dim shadows of hills pushing up into the horizon. To their north, Herne knew, lay the Badlands—a twisted, parched maze of canyons that made where they were presently riding seem like the Garden of Eden.

  The Sioux moved slowly, any desire to increase their speed impeded by those who were on foot. Around them the soldiers sweated and cursed, rapidly losing their tempers as the sun streamed relentlessly down on them until their tongues were as dry as the land.

  It was like riding on top of a powder keg that was already burning a short fuse.

  ‘Lieutenant wants to see you,’ said the Private, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  Herne moved his mount up the line.

  Lieutenant Patten sat with a straight back, head perfectly set, his body at right angles to his horse. Only close to was it possible to see the discomfort on his handsome face, the lines of sweat which stained his smooth skin.

  ‘This pace is impossible!’ The Lieutenant’s voice was clipped and clear. ‘We must make quicker progress.’

  Herne leaned sideways in the saddle, throwing his weight on to his left side. He wiped his fingers across his brow before he spoke.

  ‘That ain’t so easy now, it...’

  ‘I was under the impression that you were hired because of your familiarity with the ways of these savages!’

  Herne stopped his face from setting into a snarl. He stared at the man beside him and loathed him for his useless superiority and his ignorance. But, like Carey had said, he was on the army’s pay roll. For the present.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘These savages, as you call ’em, managed to live pretty well out here before we came along. They got a whole way of life that we...’

  The Lieutenant slapped one hand hard against the shiny holster of his gun. ‘Confound it! I didn’t ask you for a lecture on how these heathens lived before we dragged some civilization into this wretched country. I told you to get them moving faster. And that is an order!’

  The Lieutenant’s voice carried well back down the line. Not only the soldiers, but also some of the Sioux noticed. They watched the confrontation with interest.

  Herne moved his mount closer and kept his voice low. Low but urgent. ‘You listen to me, Lieutenant, and listen good ’cause I’m goin’ to say this just the once. The Indian moves fast when there’s a good reason. If there ain’t, he don’t. Right now we got this bunch headin’ back to some damn reservation where we’ll starve ’em and cheat ’em until they die. Now if you expect them to rush into that you must be stupider than I already take you for!’

  And Herne wheeled away and rode back to the procession of Sioux. He saw the old Chief’s eyes look up and meet his for an instant, then move away and return to staring ahead at the soldiers and the land before them.

  Eyes filled with an infinite sadness.

  On the afternoon of the second day, Herne heard a rider moving up close behind and turned to see the Sergeant reining in his mount. The sandy hair stuck out here and there under the hat, the skin around the crumpled ear shone blood red. Herne could smell the man’s rank sweat.

  ‘See I had you picked out right first time I saw you,’ Lattimer said with contempt.

  Herne stared back at him and said nothing.

  ‘Takin’ sides with that half-breed trash back there in town. Hell, you even stink like an Injun!’

  ‘Sergeant, that’s better’n stinkin’ like a hog.’

  ‘Why, you...!’

  Lattimer reared back in his saddle and raised his fist as if to strike out at Herne, but at the last moment he thought better of it. Sat there, overflowing with hate.

  ‘It don’t matter how slow you make this ride, one thing’s for certain—you ain’t goin’ to finish it. Not alive an’ in one piece, you ain’t!’ He pointed a stubby ringer at Herne’s face. ‘That’s one thing you got my word on!’

  Herne turned his back and flicked at the rein, leaving the Sergeant where he was. All right, he thought, that’s the way it’s to be. The least excuse for trouble and Herne knew he would have to watch his back—he didn’t think a man like Chance Lattimer would be fussy about how he got his revenge. Just as long as he got it.

  ‘There is no love between yourself and the lo
ng knives,’ said Morning Cloud.

  Riding alongside the Sioux Chiefs Herne nodded. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Yet you ride with them? You do their work?’

  Herne frowned. ‘All soldiers ain’t bad. Just like all Indians ain’t good.’

  ‘It is so.’

  ‘Important thing,’ said Herne, ‘is to know which is which.’

  The Chief nodded. ‘And these men, they are bad?’

  ‘Not all of them. The Lieutenant is young and proud and will not listen easily to words from another. But the Sergeant, the one with three stripes, he is dangerous, mean.’

  ‘He means to harm you?’

  ‘If he can.’

  Morning Cloud looked at him: ‘You will be careful?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’

  ‘That is good. We do not have many friends among your people. It would not be good to lose you.’

  Herne looked Morning Cloud in the face. ‘What you say makes me proud. I am glad to be the friend of Morning Cloud, Chief of the Sioux. You honor me.’

  The Chief lowered his eyes and looked away.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘So.’

  Later that day Herne rode on ahead, scouting out a place where they could best camp that night. The land became a succession of shallow valleys, one folding gently into the next. With the lowering of the sun it was good to be away from the slow procession and riding fast, letting his mount have its head.

  As he sped along, the hard ground seemed to thunder beneath him. Herne realized again the sense of freedom that the open plain gave to man and horse; realized how much it meant to the Sioux, whose people had lived and hunted there for generation after generation; realized how great was their sense of imprisonment and loss.

  ~*~

  Light-of-the-Stars had no such thoughts. Not at that moment. She sat on the small dun pony, the rawhide rope that led from its bridle held loosely in her left hand. Her right hand rested on her swollen belly, as if to ease it, to reassure both herself and the child that lay curled inside her.

  She knew that her time was near. Had known it when she had followed Morning Cloud from the reservation, knew it now as she followed him back. She had not wanted her child to be born inside the reservation. In captivity. She wanted him born free.