Death Chant

by Judd Cole

  The scar-faced leader squatted down beside Touch the Sky. His scar was ugly and raw and jagged in the flickering firelight. “Where’s the rest of your band?” he said in English. His voice was surprisingly calm and quiet.

  Touch the Sky held his face expressionless and said nothing.

  “I know you savvy English,” Lagace said. “I said where’s the rest of your band?”

  Touch the Sky held his silence.

  “How many of you are there?”

  Still Touch the Sky said nothing. Slowly, casually, Lagace removed the knife from the sheath on his sash. “Is this Yellow Bear’s response to my deal?”

  Touch the Sky refused to show the fear he felt inside when he saw Lagace stick the blade of the knife into the flames.

  “You might just as well talk now, boy. You sure’s hell will later,” Lagace said.

  “That’s for damn sure,” McMasters said. “You’ll talk, Injun. Oh, you’ll sing us a tune when we cut your peeder off and feed it to you.”

  Touch the Sky was aware of other faces watching him, but he could not lift his head enough to see if Honey Eater was all right. Fear had dried his mouth and iced his blood. But he remembered the Indian way, all the times Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and the others had called him Woman Face. Now he refused to let these white dogs see his fear.

  “You cooperate with me,” Lagace said, still heating the blade in the fire, “you tell me how many came with you and where they’re hiding, and I’ll let you go. I’ll let you and the girl go.”

  Touch the Sky knew Lagace was lying. Even if he weren’t, the warrior in him would not agree to those terms—not even to save Honey Eater. How could she marry a brave who had forsaken his band?

  Lagace finally removed the blade. The very edges were glowing a bright red. He spat on the hot metal, and the liquid instantly sizzled into vapor.

  “One last time, buck. Where’s the rest of your band, and how many are you?”

  Touch the Sky held his mouth in a straight, determined slit and maintained his silence. He tried not to flinch when he felt the heat of the blade approaching his bare chest.

  A moment later, his scream rent the dark fabric of the night. The pain was incredible. His body tensed against the ropes like a bowstring drawn tight. There was the crackling sound of cooking meat, the putrid stink of human flesh burning.

  McMasters laughed, enjoying this spectacle immensely after the deep gash he had suffered. Finally, mercifully, Lagace removed the burning blade and said, “Tell me, how many did your chief send to kill me?”

  Vaguely, even through his pain, Touch the Sky was aware of a woman crying somewhere behind him.

  “Honey Eater!” he called out to her in Cheyenne. “Do you know that I love you? Do you know that I have placed a stone in front of my tipi? When that stone melts, so too will my love for you! These white dogs can kill me now, but they will never kill my love for you! I am sorry I did not save you, but be strong. The others may save you yet!”

  His head exploded in pain when McMasters fetched him a vicious kick.

  “You talk English, Injun, and you talk to us. Doan be hollerin’ nothin’ out to your squaw or to the rest of the bucks. Can’t nobody save your bacon now.”

  “Shut up,” Lagace told his lackey quietly. “I’ll handle this. You and Longstreet didn’t do such a good job of handling him when you had the chance, did you? Maybe if I untied him right now, you wouldn’t be talking the he-bear talk.”

  Lagace bent closer over Touch the Sky’s face. Somehow, in the flickering firelight, his scarred visage made Touch the Sky recall the tales of the devil that he used to hear in the white man’s church. Despite his quiet voice and calm manner, this man, the Cheyenne realized, was more dangerous than McMasters with all his blustering talk.

  “That knife blade was just a touch,” Lagace said. “Just a touch. Either you talk now, or you’re going to be in a world of hurt. You won’t die fast, buck. I won’t let you. You’ll go out slow and painful. And before you die, you’ll see the girl die too.”

  Touch the Sky was not sure that the scar-faced devil would kill Honey Eater just yet—not when she was good for bargaining power with Yellow Bear and the tribe. Clearly this white man did fear the Cheyenne. Even now his eyes kept nervously flicking to the surrounding darkness.

  But Touch the Sky had no doubt he meant every word concerning him. Still, he held his face expressionless and refused to speak.

  Now, for the first time, a note of impatience crept into Lagace’s tone. “Put some rocks in the fire,” he ordered McMasters. “Heat them until they glow red.”

  McMasters laughed again and scrambled to carry out the order. Behind him, Touch the Sky could still hear Honey Eater weeping for him. But he knew it was not wise to speak to her again. He only wished she did not have to hear his screams, which were almost as torturous for her as the pain was for him.

  Lagace grabbed his head and turned it toward the fire so Touch the Sky could see. He was forced to watch as McMasters, using a stick, rolled several fist-sized rocks out from the coals. They glowed like giant chunks of punk being fanned in a breeze.

  “They stay hot for a long time,” Lagace said. “We’re piling them on you, one at a time, until you tell us what we want to know.”

  But Touch the Sky no longer cared. He had made his mind up, and nothing would change it. The pain had finally driven him to a point where he was numb to fear.

  McMasters, using two sticks now, picked up one of the rocks. A moment later, despite his numbness and determination, Touch the Sky felt pain so intense he could not have believed it possible. It was as if every nerve in his body had been stripped raw and held into a flame.

  Again his scream echoed through the night.

  Black Elk felt conflicting emotions warring inside him. From his position high in an oak tree, he watched the scene below in the paleface camp. The rest of his band were spread out on either side of him, likewise occupying spots high in the trees. They had spent hours crawling down the side of one of the mountains that flanked the saddle in which the camp was pitched. The trees grew thick here, at an odd slant, and the side of the mountain was too steep to easily scale. The only way they could be attacked was from above.

  Black Elk had seethed with anger ever since Touch the Sky gave the rest of the band the slip. To violate direct orders from a war chief was serious enough. Cheyenne had been banished from the tribe for this. But now Touch the Sky had ruined any chance for a successful raid on the camp. It was essential to maintain the element of surprise against such overwhelming numbers and firepower. Now that was out of the question. The scar-face would surely know that no Indians—certainly not Cheyennes—would raid alone.

  But along with his anger he felt a grudging sense of admiration for the young Cheyenne’s skill and courage. Had the brazen young buck not slipped past a formidable line of sentries? Had he not fought against the huge, hairy-faced white man with the courage of a she-grizzly protecting her cubs? And look now how he refused to answer the white dogs’ questions in the face of torture terrible enough to kill a lesser brave.

  This was the Cheyenne way! Black Elk, too, had been watching Honey Eater when the two paleface devils had made as if to violate her. Despite his reluctance to reveal the position of his band, he had been about to discharge his rifle to stop them. That was when Touch the Sky leaped up from the ground and revealed his presence to Black Elk for the first time.

  And when Touch the Sky swore his love for Honey Eater even in the midst of his pain—truly the words had stung Black Elk with jealousy. But was it not a manly vow, expressed from the depths of a good and strong love? They were the same words Black Elk himself might have used. Despite his regret, however, the truth of his earlier vow to Touch the Sky had not changed. One of them would have to die to decide who married Honey Eater.

  Even so, Black Elk was a war chief and bound to a high code of honor. His admiration for this upstart, but brave, Cheyenne youth would not let him wish this kind of d
eath on Touch the Sky. And surely he would die at the hands of these white dogs unless Black Elk came up with a plan.

  But what? His band was forced to take to the trees like frightened birds. Attacking the camp was impossible. They had been forced to tether their horses a great distance away to avoid detection.

  Angered by Touch the Sky’s desertion, he had issued strict orders to the rest of his band to stay put. What other choice did they have? Either he came up with a battle plan soon, or Honey Eater, and perhaps all of them, were as doomed as Touch the Sky.

  Another earsplitting scream rose as the hairy murderer dropped a second glowing rock on Touch the Sky’s chest. Still the Cheyenne refused to talk. Suddenly, Black Elk decided he had seen enough. It would be risky, but he had to earn a rest for Touch the Sky.

  He knew that sound carried in odd ways in the night. Turning his head to disguise the direction of his voice, he shouted, “Hiya, hi-i-i-ya!”

  From the trees surrounding him, the other four Cheyennes in his band dutifully repeated the tribe’s war cry: “Hiya, hi-i-i-ya!”

  A satisfied smile momentarily parted Black Elk’s normally stoic face as he watched the white scar-face and his henchman leap for the shadows beyond the campfire. Shouts of alarm spread throughout the camp as the palefaces prepared for a charge.

  However, Black Elk’s elation quickly passed. He had purchased a short respite for Touch the Sky. But now the white dogs knew they were close to their camp. And Honey Eater was no closer to safety.

  Soon, Black Elk thought glumly, their enemies might have many more Cheyenne scalps to trade for gold.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Little Horse had never hated whites more than he hated them now. He had watched through the night, fury boiling inside of him, as the paleface devils had hideously tortured Touch the Sky. Mercifully for the young Cheyenne prisoner, the band’s war cries during the night had forced the frightened whites to take a break in their cruel sport.

  Clinging in the branches of an oak tree as dawn broke over the camp, Little Horse realized the terrible injustice he had done to Touch the Sky. Had he not accused him of being a white man’s dog? Had he not turned his heart to stone against the best friend he had in Yellow Bear’s tribe, calling him a traitor to the Cheyenne? And all because the wily white men had tricked Touch the Sky into drinking their strong water.

  But watching his friend’s strength and courage throughout the horrible ordeal of the night had convinced Little Horse that Touch the Sky was a true and brave Cheyenne brother. He had put his life on the line for Honey Eater, and he had chosen pain worse than death rather than cooperate with his white captors.

  Little Horse realized that no matter what it cost, even if it meant losing his own life or honor among the tribe, he must try to help his friend. Little Horse knew he could not live as an honorable brave if he did not try. Nor could he stand the thought of Touch the Sky’s dying without knowing that he had a blood brother in Little Horse.

  His mind was made up. He would defy Black Elk’s order to remain where he was. Little Horse knew that the normally hot-tempered Black Elk, always one for action rather than patience, was reluctant to attack so long as Honey Eater was still alive.

  In the gathering light, Little Horse glanced to his left toward the tree where High Forehead was hidden. Two large branches of their respective trees almost touched. Moving slowly, cautiously, Little Horse began shinnying along his branch until he could swing into High Forehead’s tree. Little Horse was small for his age, but compact and sure in his movements. He gained High Forehead’s position with hardly a rattling of the oak leaves.

  “Brother,” he greeted him in a whisper so that Black Elk would not know he had left his position, “how do you feel about what you have seen this night?”

  High Forehead was also clearly moved. “I feel that we have wronged a brave and true Cheyenne brother,” replied the newest member of Black Elk’s band. “I will never forget such courage! I am sorry now that I let Wolf Who Hunts Smiling fool me into believing that Touch the Sky is not a true warrior. I am sorry that I did not treat Touch the Sky with the respect he deserves.”

  “Are you sorry enough,” Little Horse said, watching him closely, “to help him?”

  High Forehead looked startled. “How? Speak of this.”

  “I cannot simply let my brother die. I plan to sneak back to where we have left our ponies. I have a plan. But it requires at least two. Will you go with me?”

  High Forehead was deeply troubled. He glanced farther down the line toward the tree where Black Elk was hidden. The huge forehead that had earned him his name wrinkled with indecision.

  “It means defying our war chief,” he said finally.

  Little Horse nodded. “It does. But Black Elk is now like a cat with his back arched. He spits and shows his claws and makes a war face. But his concern for Honey Eater’s safety prevents him from striking. Meantime, Touch the Sky lies close to death.”

  “We may be banished from Yellow Bear’s tribe.”

  Again Little Horse nodded. “We may. But brother, I will speak the straight word to you. It is more likely we will die in our attempt. But we will die the glorious death of which Black Elk constantly speaks! As for myself, I would rather die alongside my brother Touch the Sky than go on living, knowing how I wronged him and let him die. You have not forsaken him as I did, and thus you do not owe him as much as I. I understand if you do not wish to join me.”

  “If I refuse,” High Forehead said, “are you going by yourself?”

  Little Horse nodded.

  “Then the decision has been made for me. It has been cruel enough watching the paleface dogs torture Touch the Sky. I will not remain up in this tree like a frightened squirrel and watch you die, too.”

  High Forehead’s words filled Little Horse with pride for the courageous young Cheyenne. “We have no rifles, only our bows and lances,” said Little Horse. “But I swear by all the power of my medicine bundle that we shall smear our bodies with white man’s blood! Come! But move quietly. If Black Elk spots us he may stop us.”

  Moving cautiously, the two Cheyenne descended from the tree. The trek ahead of them was long and arduous. First they had to scale the long, steep slope of the mountainside. Then it was a long journey to the place where they had tethered their ponies. It might well be too late by the time they made it back—Touch the Sky and Honey Eater could very likely be dead by then.

  And even if they did make it back in time, Little Horse knew his plan was far more desperate and courageous than practical. It was like two skinny coyotes attacking a den of grizzly bears.

  The sun was blazing overhead by the time they made it up the side of the mountain. They had covered half the distance to the copse where their ponies were hidden when suddenly a horse nickered and sent them leaping for cover.

  Then Little Horse realized that he recognized the whinnying. It was Touch the Sky’s dun! He investigated behind a thick deadfall and found the pony. This was a stroke of good fortune. As he untethered the pony, High Forehead said, “What is this?”

  Little Horse glanced at the medicine bundle tied to the dun’s hair bridle, the polished antelope horn hanging around its neck. He could also still see, faintly, the outlines of the magical symbols Arrow Keeper had drawn on the pony’s flanks with charcoal.

  For a moment hope surged in his breast. Little Horse suspected that Maiyun had intended for them to find Touch the Sky’s pony. “It is strong medicine,” he said. “I believe that Arrow Keeper has given this pony magical powers. Have courage, brother. We may not be riding into battle alone.”

  Lagace was filled with a murderous fury.

  He knew he and his men were surrounded by Cheyenne, but how many? And where exactly were they? He had been on edge ever since their war cries had sounded during the night. Now it was midmorning and still there was no sign of them.

  He glanced across the central camp clearing at the still form of the Cheyenne buck they had taken prisoner. Seein
g him, Lagace’s face seemed to take on some of the livid coloring of his scar. When the youth had finally passed out from the pain, Lagace realized he was not going to talk. The youth’s chest and stomach were covered with raw, blistering burns, but still he had not given in.

  His men were jittery and nerve-frazzled from the ordeal of waiting. This worried Lagace. These were not disciplined soldiers loyal to a cause. They were cutthroat mercenaries following another cutthroat mercenary. Their only loyalty was to themselves and his pocketbook. And all this trouble with the Cheyenne had forced him to curtail his whiskey-peddling and scalping-for-bounty activities. Gold was scarce, and the men were starting to grumble.

  A shout came from the perimeter sentries. “Rider approaching!”

  Lagace tensed, drawing his Colt-Patterson pistol. But a moment later the sentry’s voice added, “It’s Jennings, from the Yellowstone camp!”

  A tall, lanky rider with a full red beard guided his piebald around the breastworks and into the middle of camp. “We got Injun troubles,” he said to Lagace as he dismounted. “McPherson sent me to tell you. I’da been here sooner, but I run into Sioux bands twice and had to backtrack to save my topknot.”

  “Hold on,” Lagace said. “You have any trouble riding into camp just now? See signs of any redskins close by?”

  “Here? Naw ... I’m talkin’ ’bout trouble up to the Yellowstone camp.”

  Lagace frowned. If they were surrounded, why would Cheyenne let a paleface break their ranks? But it might be a ruse. Maybe they wanted him to do what he was tempted to do: divide his numbers and send men out to scout. Then the Indians would attack a weakened camp.

  “What kind of trouble?” he said finally.

  Jennings stared at the unconscious Cheyenne. “Trouble like that right there. We got a band of Cheyenne warriors picking us off. They’ve killed five men so far, and we ain’t been able to draw a drop of their blood.”

  “How many are there?”