by John Benteen
Sundance said, tonelessly: “Do you believe this?”
Whistling Swan looked at him quizzically. Then he shrugged. “It is better than believing that by the end of winter we will all be dead from starving.”
“The young men especially believe,” One Wolf said. “Those who were too young for the Greasy Grass, who have never fought the white men. They want to stay behind when the rest go to Heaven and kill some whites—”
Sundance said, “Where is Little Chief? I do not see him among the dancers.”
Whistling Swan pointed. “In his cabin, with Kicking Bear and Big Foot, the Minniconjou. They hold council. Big Foot is not well, he has trouble in his chest, and so he does not dance.”
“Then I will go and talk to him,” Sundance said.
Whistling Swan put out a hand, laid it restrainingly on the pommel of Sundance’s saddle. “No,” he said. “No, I think not today, my friend.”
Sundance frowned.
One Wolf looked embarrassed. “The three of us,” he said, “have known each other long; since long before the Greasy Grass. But I tell you now, it would not be a good thing for you to go down there. You see, what Yellow Bird preaches is this: nothing made by white men must be carried in the dance, nothing except the cloth of these shirts. There can be no metal carried in the dance, or anything tainted by the whites. He has preached that very hard...”
Sundance’s face twisted. “All the same,” he snapped, “I’m going down to see Little Chief. I’d planned to spend the night here; maybe that won’t be possible. But I am a Dog Soldier of the People, the Cheyenne, and yellow hair or no, no one turns me away, especially not a Minniconjou medicine man.” His black eyes glittered as he looked at them. “Brothers, will you try to stop me?”
Whistling Swan was silent for a moment. Then he laughed dryly. “No. Not I. I’ve seen that look on your face before. No, Sundance. We’ll ride down with you.”
“That’s better,” Sundance said. He lifted rein. “Hoka hey. Let’s go!”
Chapter Five
Little Chief’s cabin was not much of a dwelling for the leader of a tribe, but it was the sort of place which, under the program of trying to make farmers out of the Indians, many now were forced to occupy. Barely ten feet square, it consisted of a single room with an old iron cot on one side, a fireplace on the other, a table and a chair in between. Usually Little Chief and his wife slept in a teepee pitched behind it.
They had come to it roundabout, circling wide past the dance, which went full blast now. Sundance had seen, in the distance, men and women both break from the circle, hurl themselves flat on the ground, writhe, roll, chant, scream—exactly, he thought, like white people coming to Jesus at a camp meeting. Then, at his knock, Little Chief had opened the door; and for the first time since Sundance could remember, the stocky, middle-aged Cheyenne leader had not looked glad to see him.
Still, he put a good face on it. “Sundance, my brother! Come in.” He stepped aside, clad in Ghost Shirt and buckskin leggings, his war bonnet on his head. The wild trappings contrasted strangely with the grubby, dirt-floored interior of the place. Sundance went past him, and Little Chief closed the door quickly, as the two men behind the table jumped to their feet, one quickly, the other rising with effort, coughing.
Sundance looked at them. “Hau, Kicking Bear, Big Foot.”
Kicking Bear was muscular, in his mid-thirties, face broad, eyes keen, mouth a thin gash. He had been, Sundance knew, the chief evangelist of the Ghost Dance doctrine, the observer who had brought it from the Arapaho. He, too, wore a Ghost Shirt and buckskin pants, and two Eagle feathers stood straight up behind his head, their position the sign of war. “Hau,” he said, voice chill.
“Sundance...” Big Foot’s voice was softer, warmer. He coughed again, rackingly, a huge, gaunt old man in his late fifties, black hair streaked with silver. He huddled deep in a shabby buffalo robe, as if he were very cold.
“Smoke with us,” Little Chief said. “We make council.”
Sundance nodded, waited patiently while he lit the pipe again with a coal from the embers in the fireplace. The cabin stank of the harsh red willow bark and cheap tobacco and of human bodies and the smell of sweet-grass burned in the fireplace could not erase it. When Little Chief passed the pipe to him, Sundance took it, smoked ritually, blowing puffs to earth and sky and the four compass points. During all this time, Kicking Bear stood tensely, looking at him with hostile eyes.
Sundance laid the pipe aside, but he did not sit down. “My friend,” he said to Little Chief, “I have been at council at the agency. I’ve talked with Miles and with Royer, and with the soldiers. I have this to say to you, and to you, too, Kicking Bear and Big Foot. They have promised that there will soon be more meat, not only here but at the other agencies. Cheyenne River, your home—” he looked at Big Foot. “And the others.”
Kicking Bear’s mouth twisted. “Whose meat? The leather man with the white hair on his mouth?”
“Fain?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yes,” Sundance said.
Kicking Bear spat into the fire. “Faugh! Then there will be no meat. Only rawhide, horns and bones and guts. No good beef, only so many lies on four feet. It amounts to nothing!”
“Wait,” Sundance said. “I’m not through. I myself will drive five hundred cattle here. I can’t bring them to the agency. But they’ll be driven into the Badlands and turned loose, and the tribes can hunt them. And they’ll be fat as any buffalo cow. I promise, there’ll be meat.”
Kicking Bear laughed. “A raindrop in a dry creek bed. Do you think the soldiers will let us hunt your cows? Besides—” his voice rose “—come green up time, when the grass grows again, the new world will be here. It will come like a flash flood from the west, bringing back the buffalo, plenty buffalo, all the buffalo Indians will ever need. And drive out the white men.”
“And all you have to do is keep on dancing. Is that right?” Sundance’s voice was wry.
“That’s right!” Kicking Bear snapped. “And believe. And ...” he laughed softly. “And wait for Sitting Bull.”
Sundance stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”
Kicking Bear laughed again. “You know what I mean. Two Strike and Hump out in the Stronghold—They have proved the Army cannot touch them. And they have sent word to Sitting Bull. If he’ll come from Standing Rock to Pine Ridge and bring his Hunkpapas, the rest of the Oglalas here and the other Brulés and the Minniconjou from Cheyenne River—They’ll all rise up and follow him again.”
“And the Cheyenne,” Little Chief said quickly. “Don’t forget the Cheyenne. We’ll ride with Sitting Bull again, as we did at the Greasy Grass. And when we ride, so will our brothers at Lame Deer on the Tongue. They’ll slash their way east, cut through the Army—”
Kicking Bear chopped the air with a hand. “Seven hundred soldiers there were at the Greasy Grass, and we killed a third. This time, with the Ghost Dance Medicine, well kill them all!” He spat again, this time on the floor, “And when we rise, so will the Kiowas and the Arapahos, the Comanches, even the Apaches. The tame Indians, the Cherokees and Choctaws, the Osages and the white man’s loving friends, the Pawnees, maybe even the white man’s dogs the Crows—This time every man with a red skin will rise! When they see the miracle begin—”
Sundance sucked in a deep breath. “Maybe, maybe not. The white man’s Army has Crow scouts and, now, even Cheyennes. And half the Sioux are not for the Ghost Dance. What about Red Cloud and American Horse and Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses? Gall will not rise, either, or ... ” He looked at Big Foot. “You? Always you have talked against war.”
“My young men—” Big Foot coughed again, huddled deeper in his robe. “We’re camped at Cherry Creek on the Cheyenne River, and Hump keeps my young men stirred up, he and Yellow Bird. You know how things are; if the people want to fight ... ” Another cough, and he added: “Under Hump, they Ghost Dance now, while I am here...”
“When S
itting Bull comes, as he must come,” Kicking Bear grated, “and takes command, we’ll all join Two Strike and Short Bull in the Stronghold. From there, we’ll fan out to take this country back, and by summer next it will be a new world. The Miracle—”
“The Miracle,” Sundance said grimly, “had better be strong enough to deal with Gatling guns and cannons. Because—”
Before he could finish, the door slammed open. Sundance whirled, stared at the figure there. Yellow Bird, gaunt face streaming with sweat, chest heaving beneath his Ghost Shirt, looked at him with hatred. “I saw him!” he roared. “I saw the yellow headed half-white come here! He’s ruined the dance! He wears the white man’s gun, the white man’s hair! He’s ruined the medicine!” The Sioux evangelist looked at Little Chief and Kicking Bear. “Take him! There’s only one way to save the medicine. He must die!”
~*~
For a moment, then, the little cabin was very quiet. Sundance, standing loosely, looked at the chiefs, and at the wild-eyed shaman. Then Whistling Swan and One Wolf crowded through the door behind the man. “Take him!” Yellow Bird husked again. “I tell you, Wakan Tonka commands it! Sundance must die!”
Sundance edged toward a wall, shoved his back against it. “Yellow Bird. You lie in your teeth.” His mouth curled. “I remember many years ago, you raced a horse against my Appaloosa when the tribes had gathered on the Powder River. You lost, and I saw the same look in your eyes then. I came here to talk the wisdom of war or peace with these chiefs in council and—”
Yellow Bird stepped further into the room, and Whistling Swan and One Wolf came behind him, faces grave, rifles pointed at him. His eyes shone with fanaticism, insanity, sweat ran down his face, his chest still heaved as if he could not get air enough in his lungs.
“You have ruined the Ghost Dance,” he husked, “and there is only way to change things. I have said it.”
Kicking Bear took a step forward. “Yellow Bird’s right. Little Chief, this man must die ...”
Sundance looked at Whistling Swan and One Wolf. Whistling Swan said, “Sundance, I warned you ... I knew this would happen.”
“We rode together at the Greasy Grass,” Sundance began.
“That was in another world,” One Wolf said. “Before the Messiah and the promise of the Miracle. Nothing must interfere with the Miracle.”
Sundance swallowed hard. “These two men,” he told Kicking Bear, “carry the white man’s guns.”
“But they don’t dance,” Yellow Bird snapped. “They were guards and their medicine is good and special; I have made it so.”
Sundance looked at Little Chief. The stocky Cheyenne stood indecisively. “Sundance, I wish you had not come here,” he began.
And then Sundance knew. For the first time in his life, he felt, among Indians, like an outsider, and he knew. It was nothing he could blame them for, but the bitterness that welled up in him was almost worse than a belly wound. They could not understand all he had done, all he had sacrificed for them. What they knew now was that he threatened their one last hope, the coming of their Savior and of their Miracle. Right now, even being half white was too much whiteness.
Big Foot hawked, cleared his throat, “I don’t think—” he began, but before he could finish, he went into a spasm of coughing. He turned away, doubled over. Sundance said, quietly: “Little Chief. I am of the People. I call on you to let me go. Let me ride in peace.”
Little Chief said, “Sundance, my friend, I—” And there was no hope in his voice; it trailed off ineffectually. Now the room was dominated by two presences: Kicking Bear and Yellow Bird, and both were looking at Sundance with a death sentence in their eyes.
And Sundance knew what he had to do. One moment, he stood tensely, hands empty, against the wall. The next, he was crouched, and his right hand held his Colt, trained squarely on Yellow Bird’s chest, hammer eared back. He saw Whistling Swan clap a hand to his mouth in surprise at the magical speed of that draw.
But there was no time to think about Whistling Swan now. Sundance said coldly, evenly: “Yellow Bird. You say Wakan Tonka wants me dead. I say Yellow Bird wants me dead because of a horse race long ago. But think of this: You can kill me now. Yes. But my hand will close on the trigger. And then you die, too.”
Yellow Bird stared at the gun. One Wolf whispered: “Minniconjou, you have nothing to fear. Your Ghost Shirt makes you bullet proof. You have said it.”
Sundance laughed coarsely. “From the guns of white men. But remember, I was born a member of the People, I’m a Dog Soldier, and I have my own medicine and it is strong. Well, Yellow Bird? Give the order to them to fire. Once they shoot, I’m dead; I have no Ghost Shirt. And if my bullet cannot hurt you, why should you hesitate? Of course, the room is small and it’s full and you have no place to dodge or hide. But why worry? My slug will only bounce off, eh? Go ahead, Yellow Bird. Tell my friends to kill me.”
Still the Minniconjou medicine man did not move. He stayed immobile two seconds, five, ten: and then one second more too long. All at once One Wolf made a sound of derision in his throat. “All right,” he said bitterly, and with a sudden, ferocious gesture, he threw his rifle on Little Chief’s bed. Whistling Swan’s mouth curled and he lowered his own gun. “And there,” One Wolf said bitterly. “And there is the magic of your Ghost Shirt.” With a quick, violent gesture, he ripped his own off.
Kicking Bear yelled: “You fool, you’ll anger the Great Father!”
One Wolf spat. “I think the Great Father will be angry enough about this false prophet here who comes and tries to turn the Cheyennes against one of their own kind. I think the sight of His People dancing around in these foolish shirts on a Minniconjou faker’s say-so will make his stomach sick.” He looked at Little Chief.
“Lead the People down the Ghost Dance trail to war if you think you must do that,” he rasped. “But don’t tell them they’re bullet proof. Not unless Yellow Bird wants to prove it now?”
The medicine man stood there with flaring eyes, tongue running over lips. Then, under the threat of Sundance’s gun, he dropped his head.
Little Chief looked at Yellow Bird. “I think,” he whispered, “that the Ghost Dancing is finished among my Cheyennes. You Sioux may worship as you please. But—” He turned to Kicking Bear. “I think Sundance has decided for us what we were to decide in council. I believe you should return to Cheyenne River. You, too, Big Foot. Leave us in peace...”
Big Foot let out a gusty breath that ended in a bubbling sound deep in his chest. Swaying, he rubbed his face. “I think I have learned something about the Ghost Dance, too. I’m going back to Cherry Creek. Maybe if Sitting Bull comes, I’ll think about war. Right now—” He went into a fit of coughing.
Sundance’s hand was sweating on the gun butt, but the muzzle of the Colt, still trained on Yellow Bird, never wavered. If the shaman believed his own doctrine, was sure enough of it to risk his life under a dead drop, then he would die here, Sundance would, and he and Yellow Bird would be the first victims of the Ghost Dance. It was not over yet; not until Yellow Bird broke.
Then the shaman turned away. “The medicine is bad here,” he said. “I go with Big Foot back to Cheyenne River. The Cheyenne medicine is old woman’s medicine, and it has a stink to it.” With long, quick strides, just short of a run, he disappeared through the door. Big Foot, still coughing, lurched after him.
Kicking Bear stood there, face tense, eyes aglitter. There was pure hatred in the look he threw at Sundance. Then he also stalked out.
One Wolf moved to slam the door behind him, drop its bar. Then he passed his hand over his eyes. “Almost,” he said huskily, “almost I killed my friend for that foolish Minniconjou preacher.”
“It was close,” Whistling Swan said. “Very close.” His voice was shaky.
Little Chief stepped decisively around the table. “Sundance,” he said softly, “thank you. You’ve kept the People from a fight I did not think they could win, one I was reluctant to have them enter.” He paused. �
��If we were at our old strength ... but so many of us have died and so few are left now. So very few...”
“Keep them alive,” Sundance rasped. “Keep them alive and I’ll see that they’re fed. Will you believe me?”
“I believe you.”
“And in the Spring, there’ll be no miracle. But you’ll go back to the Yellowstone country. If you don’t fight the Ghost Dance fight, I can promise that.” He holstered his Colt and all at once his voice broke. “God damn it,” he said in English. “I wish—”
Little Chief cut in. “Listen,” he said, “I think you had better ride now, and you had better ride far and fast and watch your back trail. I think it’s better if you don’t stay here.”
One Wolf stepped forward. “That’s right,” he said. “Kicking Bear and Yellow Bird have lost a great battle just now—one for the soul of the Cheyennes. Whistling Swan and I will ride with you, though, until you’re in the clear—if you want us to.”
Sundance looked at them. Then he smiled. “I want you to,” he said.
One Wolf picked up his gun from the bed. “Then let’s go,” he said. “The Minniconjou know better than to think their Ghost Spirits will stand against three Cheyennes with guns ...”
~*~
At dark, far in the breaks along the south fork of the Cheyenne River, they clasped his hand, the two Cheyenne warriors, and turned back. But before they left, Sundance said: “Soon. You understand? In these same badlands, here along the reservation’s edge. Beef, plenty beef, and you can hunt it down like buffalo. Only ... share it with the others. The Oglala and the Brulé and the Minniconjou. And stand fast until Spring, when you go back to the old hunting grounds.”
“I would rather trust your promise than Yellow Bird’s,” Whistling Swan growled. “But now we go ... Hoka hey, One Wolf!”
Sundance kept the spotted stallion tight reined until they had vanished into the windy, chilly darkness. Then he turned the horse upstream.
In a grove of cedars by the river, he swung down, tying the stud’s reins to a branch. He did not unsaddle it; first, Winchester in hand, he made a scout. Moving with absolute soundlessness through the brush, he checked his back trail. Satisfied, presently he went back to the stallion, shucked off its saddle, bridle, picketed it where there was fair grass, and made his bed in a clearing in the cedar swamp, where the trees would fend off the wind. Gathering dry branches, he made a fire. Over it, he cooked a pot of coffee, and that, with jerky from his saddle bags, made his meal, as he sat cross-legged, rifle across his lap. Always, he was conscious of Eagle grazing nearby.
