“I’m sure you would.” Lemuel had no doubt about that. He had learned quickly that Touch-the-Clouds was not a man anyone wanted to offend. He had never seen the Lakota chief raise his voice in anger, or even utter a threat, but he did not have to do so. Whatever he had done in the past to ensure obedience had obviously worked.
“I would of course be very sorry to have to kill you.” Rubalev chuckled.
“I assume that this camp up ahead is a base of some sort,” Lemuel said. “I don’t see any women outside the tepees, so I’m guessing that some kind of special training for warriors goes on here. Is it training as soldiers, or perhaps something more spiritual?” He had seen how devoted these people were to their prayers and their rituals in which they appealed to the spirits; it was one of their more attractive qualities.
Rubalev twisted around in his saddle. “You will see.”
Lemuel thought of the sound he had heard not long before, a sound that had reminded him of an explosion. “You’re making weapons here,” he said. “They must be something different from the weapons the Lakota usually steal. I heard—” He paused. What he had heard might only be thunder, although it had sounded more like fireworks. “An exploding sound,” he finished.
“Yes,” Rubalev said.
A man rode toward them; Lemuel recognized White Eagle. In the camp, standing near one of the tepees, were two men with light brown faces and almond-shaped eyes who did not have the look of the Lakota. They were also much shorter, although their clothing made them look bulky.
“Those two men aren’t Sioux,” Lemuel murmured.
“No, they are not. They are the Chen brothers—I think you will find them interesting. Wing-shen and Shing-shen, they are called, but they know English and are used to answering to the English meaning of their names.”
“And what are those?” Lemuel asked.
“Glorious Spirit and Victorious Spirit. They are most suitable names, are they not? They are men who make things, as are you. I think you will enjoy their work.”
“And this,’’ one of the Chen brothers said softly, “is the Flying Eagle with Magic Fire.”
Lemuel peered at the basket of reeds and wood. It looked more like a winged chicken than an eagle. The basket had been filled with gunpowder and sealed with paper; two rockets were attached under the wings.
“Light fuse, here,” the man continued, “and then he flies, and when he lands—” He threw out his hands and made an explosive sound. “Big fire. Big noise.”
“Sides of hole must be straight,” the other brother said. Glorious Spirit or Victorious Spirit? Lemuel could not tell the two apart. ‘‘Too deep hole here—arrow lose too much fire from back when bird flies. Too shallow, and will fall before reaching enemy—maybe on top of us.”
The two had taken him to their tepee and shown him some of their devices soon after dawn. Lemuel had slept badly, after an early supper of dried buffalo meat and the effort of trying to suppress his curiosity. He had expected to see something unusual. He had not expected this. He looked around at the other rocket launchers, the Pack of Fifty Wolves Running Together, the Mountain Lions Who Scatter, and the Eagles in Search of Martens.
“Better with bamboo than wood and reeds,” Victorious Spirit—or was it Glorious Spirit?—said. “But still work good.”
Lemuel nodded. He had no doubt of that. Rubalev had told him a little about the Chen brothers. They had come here from China and found work building the western tracks of the Union Pacific. They had come here with, apparently, much more learning than most of their fellow Chinese coolies; Rubalev had hinted that they had been in flight from powerful enemies in their homeland. Rubalev had met the Chen brothers near San Francisco and had found out enough about them to think that they might be of use.
“I did not know what to do with them in the beginning,’’ Rubalev had admitted. “I gave them some money, found them a place to work, and told them to make what they liked. After I saw what they could do, I brought them here.”
Rubalev stood near Lemuel; White Eagle was fingering the shafts of one arrow-rocket. “These will be good to use in battle,” the Lakota said. “Hitting the enemy at a distance—it is not the right way, not a good way to fight, but the rocket-arrows will not kill them all. We will still have some men to fight against hand to hand. We will still count coup.”
“What do you think?” Rubalev asked.
“The Lakota can probably win a battle with these weapons,” Lemuel said. “They might even win a few battles, but they won’t win a war. The main advantage they’ll have in the beginning is that the Blue Coats won’t expect such weapons to be used against them, since they don’t know these Indians have them. But once they find out, they’ll throw even more of their weaponry against the Lakota. They’ve kept these weapons secret so far, but once they fight their first battle, the secret will be out, and they’ll lose that advantage.”
“That is what I think,” Rubalev said.
“And I don’t know how they can be brought into action,” Lemuel continued. “If the Lakota wait until the Blue Coats come after them, they may not have time to bring these rocket-arrows to the scene of the battle. If they engage the enemy and then retreat, to lure the Blue Coats here, they had better win an overwhelming victory and kill every last man, because otherwise—”
“—they will know what is going on here,” Rubalev finished.
“And at that point, they will send everything they have against the Lakota,” Lemuel said, “and they’ll win.”
“Touch-the-Clouds knows that,” Rubalev said.
“We raid,” White Eagle said. “The spirits want us to use these weapons—not let us make them here in Paha Sapa if they did not want us to fight. We attack agencies, first Red Cloud Agency and then Spotted Tail. We can take what we want there and then go to Fort Laramie.” He glanced at the Chen brothers. “We bring rocket-arrows with us and fire them at the fort.”
“That is not a bad idea,” Rubalev said.
“It might be a good idea to go on the offensive,” Lemuel said, “instead of waiting for soldiers to come after you.” He was surprised to hear the notion from White Eagle. Touch-the-Clouds might have convinced many of his people that they would have to find new ways to hold on to what they had, but some of them still clung to older ways. They thought of battles as efforts to win some individual glory, not as parts of a larger campaign with a purpose. They still raided and stole horses from outlying, isolated farms and ranches when they thought they could get away with it. Some of them would say that as long as the whites kept away from the lands given to the Lakota by treaty, there was no reason to attack their forts.
“We fire rocket-arrows,” White Eagle said, “and kill everyone inside the fort.” He smiled. “But only if treaty is broken.”
Rubalev turned toward White Eagle. “You will need more of a plan than that,” he said.
Lemuel moved toward the open tent flap. “Thank you for showing me your inventions,” he said to the Chen brothers. “I have no doubt that they’ll prove useful.” He went outside and had reached his horse before Rubalev caught up with him.
“Where are you going?” Rubalev asked.
“For a ride. I’ll be back by evening.”
“You should not go alone.”
“I thought I was trusted.”
“You are trusted.” Rubalev showed his teeth. “But you should not go alone.”
“Then have someone follow me,’’ Lemuel said. “Ride after me yourself if you like, but keep behind me. I need some time to think.”
“About tactics?” Rubalev asked.
“About a lot of things.” Lemuel saddled his horse and tightened the girth. Rubalev watched him in silence, then went back inside the tepee.
Lemuel rode along the side of a small stream, then up a hill. He knew that he was being followed, but did not look back.
He had not thought of escape until now. During his early months at the camp of Touch-the-Clouds, he had thought only of keeping h
imself alive. The winter had been harsh, although the old men in the camp had implied that other winters had been much harder, and Lemuel had been given enough to eat. It might have been easier for him if Virgil had stayed in the encampment with him, but the black man and Denis Laforte had left after only a few days, and he did not know where they had gone.
He had mastered the Lakota tongue quickly, sensing that the men around him would grow more impatient with him if he did not. He had survived the winter while brooding about what might become of him if Touch-the-Clouds decided he was of little use. There was little he could do to prove himself. He did not know the land and the game well enough to hunt, and he had no other useful skills. All he could do was to practice his Lakota and help Touch-the-Clouds with his English while answering any of the chief’s questions about the Wasichu. Lemuel had never been able to tell if his answers satisfied Touch-the-Clouds or not. Everything he said was met with the same silence, brief nod of the head, and steady, merciless gaze.
By the summer after his arrival, when the bands of Oglalas, Brulés, Wahpetons, Hunkpapas, and other bands of Lakota were gathering at the Black Hills with the Cheyenne for their annual Sun Dance, he already suspected that the source of the Lakotas’ gold had to be near here. He had seen the nuggets passed from hand to hand, the bags of gold dust given to riders to take to unknown destinations. Some of it, Lemuel knew, had been taken to Rubalev, to be used to buy weapons and friends and whatever else was needed.
There had been rumors about gold in this region for years, even before the war. There had also been too many hostile and dangerous Indians in the territory to attract miners looking for strikes. But sooner or later, some of the gold that might be here would find its way into enemy hands. Perhaps it already had.
Anyone seeing the gold would want to know where it came from, and perhaps they already knew. The provisions of the treaty with the Lakota would not keep prospectors from this region if anyone even suspected that there was gold here. The Sioux were right about the yellow metal driving the Wasichu to madness. If times were as hard as Rubalev said they were, people would be even hungrier for gold. Miners and prospectors would swarm into the Black Hills and the Lakota would kill as many of them as they could. The army would have to retaliate and there would be a war—a true war, not just isolated raids and battles and revenge killings.
A comet had been sighted that spring, growing into a streak of starry light near the Great Bear. Most of the Lakota seemed to regard it as an evil omen, a sign of the Great Spirit’s disapproval. Touch-the-Clouds was not so certain. The comet might be a sign of anger, or it might have been sent to guide those warriors who died in any upcoming battles to the heavens. Touch-the-Clouds had insisted on this forcefully enough that soon most of the men had come around to his view. Lemuel wondered if the Lakota chief was expecting a war soon.
He reined in his horse. The animal lowered its head to drink from the stream. Lemuel glanced over his shoulder and saw a Lakota warrior, bare-chested, with a necklace of beads and bear claws and his black hair streaming down his back. White Eagle was following him. Maybe sending someone after him had nothing to do with a lack of trust; perhaps they only wanted to keep him safe from any danger. He wondered which would shame him more, not being trusted or having these men so certain that he could not protect himself.
The sun danced on the water as his horse drank. The thought that he had been avoiding suddenly floated to the surface. He had made a mistake in coming here. The Lakota did not need him to fight their war. Better for him to try to find some way of getting word back to Fort Kearney and Jeremiah Clarke from Bismarck or Fort Abraham Lincoln. He could ride that far, have a chance of outrunning any pursuers. There was no need to betray the Lakotas. He could tell Jeremiah truthfully that any war with the Sioux would be bloody, that it was not worth fighting, that the Indians had more weapons than they realized, that there had been enough wars.
He suppressed his thoughts immediately. He had grown used to doing that, afraid that somehow Touch-the-Clouds might sense his hidden musings. Foolish to think that even Jeremiah would be persuaded by his plea to honor the promises in the treaties.
He would look at the missiles Glorious Spirit and Victorious Spirit had built, and see if he could find ways to improve them. That would be useful to the Lakota. He drew on his reins, guiding his mount toward White Eagle.
The sound of voices woke Lemuel before dawn. He sat up and realized he was alone; Rubalev had already left the tepee they shared.
He got up and went outside. Men were taking down the tepees and tying packs to horses. He expected to see them looking angry or ashamed at doing this women’s work, but instead their expressions were grim. Others were loading the rocket-arrows and their baskets onto hides attached to poles, Two men Lemuel had not seen here before were in the camp. He recognized one of them: Soaring Eagle, the father of White Eagle.
Rubalev was talking to the newcomers. “What’s going on?” Lemuel asked as he approached them.
“We are leaving,” Rubalev replied. “Some will go southeast with Glorious Spirit and Victorious Spirit. Others will hide in the mountains and wait to see what we have to do.”
White Eagle turned toward them. “My father rode here with Iron Hawk to say that Blue Coats are riding to Paha Sapa. Many pony soldiers.” He held up his hands. “Not to fight. They are not war party here to fight us. Here to look.”
Lemuel frowned. “And they weren’t stopped?”
“They are being followed,” Rubalev said. “There’s no point in attacking until—” One of the men loading the horses motioned to the blond man. Rubalev strode over to him.
He did not have to finish the sentence. Lemuel could guess what the intentions of Touch-the-Clouds were. He would spy on the expedition, assess their strength, see how far they went and what they found. Maybe they would not travel too far, and perhaps they could be left alone. If, however, the Lakota decided to attack, they would have to kill them all. They could not risk having any of them return to their post with tales of gold and strange activity in the Black Hills.
Lemuel said, “They are breaking the treaty if they come here.”
Rubalev sniffed. “Of course they are breaking the treaty. They do not care. So the Lakota will not be breaking the treaty if they attack.”
White Eagle’s father muttered a few words in Lakota, something about the Morning Star. Rubalev scowled. “He says that the Long Hair Custer is with the expedition, the one the Crows call the Son of the Morning Star.”
“They rode out from Fort Lincoln some days ago,’’ White Eagle added. Then, Lemuel thought, Jeremiah Clarke was not likely to be with them. “My father says that is what our spies there told Touch-the-Clouds.”
Of course the Lakota would have spies, Lemuel thought. No one had ever mentioned such spies to him, but there was no need to give him such information. He wondered who the spies were; some were probably among the Indian scouts. Not many would scout for the Blue Coats unless they were also spies for the Lakota and Cheyenne; they were too afraid of Touch-the-Clouds for that.
“Many,” Soaring Eagle said. “Many wagons, many men.”
“How many?” Rubalev asked.
“One hundred wagons,” Soaring Eagle replied. “Men— many hundred.” He held up his hands, stretching out his fingers. ‘‘This many hundred.”
Lemuel let out his breath, seeing how many the Lakota meant; nearly a thousand. Could Touch-the-Clouds attack them and have any hope of winning? He did not think so.
“Come with me,” Rubalev said then. “Touch-the-Clouds gave his orders for us. We are to ride east and stay with White Eagle and his father and keep watch for the Blue Coats along the Belle Fourche River.”
“You’d do better without me,” Lemuel said. That sounded cowardly. “I don’t know this territory,” he said in a more forceful way.
“You do not have to know,” Rubalev replied. “We will watch out for you. You are coming along in case we have to speak to them.”
Martha Jane Cannary tightened her hands on the reins, urging along the mules that pulled her wagon. Up ahead of the canvas-covered wagons, out of sight, she still heard the band playing. She cupped an ear, trying to recognize the tune; the sound of brass echoed from the hills. The reverberating echoes of the trumpets made it impossible for her to know what the song was.
They were probably playing “Garry Owen” again. The Seventh Cavalry’s band played a lot of tunes, starting first thing in the morning after “Reveille.” General Custer—he was actually a colonel, but everyone addressed him by the breveted rank he had earned during the War Between the States—enjoyed music and pomp. Only Iron Butt Custer would think of bringing a sixteen-piece brass band on white horses along with the Seventh on an expedition into territory few white men, except for maybe some traders or trappers, had ever seen.
The sound of the trumpets and the other brass instruments might scare the redskins, though. The Indians had probably never heard a brass band before.
The territory here was beautiful country. The flowers were thick around Jane, many reaching past the tops of her wagon’s wheels. The men had been picking the flowers as they rode by and there were still enough left for hundreds of bouquets. To the southwest, in the distance, lay the dark, forbidding peaks of the Black Hills.
Jane was sure that they were being watched. Trailing the expedition in the last of the wagons, keeping well behind Hard Ass Custer and most of his men, she felt eyes watching them from the hills. The band had finally stopped playing. The Indians had to be waiting, maybe thinking of picking off any stragglers among the soldiers bringing up the rear.
Climb the Wind: A Journey Into Another Past Page 14
