“Me, him, we help Little Robe much,” the Cheyenne had said when the two of them rode up with their string of horses. “Little Robe know me, feel good see me.”
Not that the chiefs would have been aware of anyone greeting them in their present state. They were so drunk they would not have noticed a cannon shot off next to their ears.
Agent Miles looked again at his inebriated Cheyenne leaders, one of whom began vomiting green bile into the gutter next to the agent’s leg. Miles took a quick step to the side and drew in a deep breath, raising his voice as if he wished to address not just those nearby, but all within the city limits.
“Of all the miserable, lost, and misbegotten locations on this green earth to be stranded! Hear thee my words, for I have no doubt! This flea-bitten, filth-ridden, forsaken town is the worst place in the world! It is Sodom and Gomorrah reborn.”
“Amen,” Wash and Josh said as one.
Agent Miles stared at them. They hushed up quick, like children caught talking in class by the teacher.
Miles turned back to Lieutenant Millen, who looked as if he would gladly dig a hole and crawl into it. The agent waved his hand at the six stretched-out chiefs who, in their miserable state, were perhaps the only ones within a hundred yards not hearing his declamation.
“We arrived here assured that mounts would await us. We found nothing, not even a message at the telegraph office. We made our way along the street, being jeered at by ignorant buffoons and having clods of dirt hurled at us by delinquent children. Upon entering the Dodge House,” he pointed up the street with a finger quivering so hard Wash was surprised not to see a bolt of lightning shoot out of it, “I was told that the establishment did not wish to cater to Indians. It took all of my powers of friendly persuasion to convince them, plus my proffer of double the usual nightly rate—from my own funds—to pay for those wretched rooms.”
Miles let out a sound half moan, half growl.
“I should have known from the bedlam among the ruffians at the bar downstairs that no good would befall us there. Sure enough, when we were all finally fast asleep, miscreants slipped into our rooms to place packages of red pepper and gunpowder in our stoves. We woke immersed in a black miasma of smoke that burned our eyes and blinded us. After we went tumbling downstairs and into the chill night, the doors of the hotel were then shut against us. Our only recourse was to make our way back to the railroad car, followed by the raucous laughter of the authors of our discomfort. Though the car was cold, the benches hard, I thought that at least we would be left in peace. Alas, ’twas not so. Whilst I slept, some of those same ill-favored louts made their way to the rail car. They brought with them what they assured the chiefs was hot toddy, a harmless drink to warm them against the cold. But that toddy was naught but a splash of warmed milk mixed with a great dose of whiskey. Thus thee do see them as they are now.”
He gestured at the six befuddled chiefs stretched out now on the ground. Then he dropped his arms and his voice failed him.
“Help us,” he whispered.
It took a good amount of walking around and strong coffee, as well as some further helpful vomiting, but the soldiers and the two young Cheyennes finally did get the six chiefs into a state where they were able to mount their horses. Then they started on the long and awkward ride to Camp Supply.
As the day wore on and the miles passed, the chiefs sobered up enough to begin to suffer from fearful hangovers. Sick as they were, it was clear to Wash that they were a formidable group. He could feel the power emanating from them. Every one of them a major chief. Stone Calf, Wind, White Shield, White Horse, Pawnee, Little Robe.
Little Robe, the only one of the chiefs who had smiled at Wash and who seemed honestly grateful for his help, appeared saddened but not angered by the turn of events.
Little Robe. Wash had heard his name. He was good Indian who talked peace more than most. Not that he was the weak sort. He seemed to Wash to be one of those gentle types with a spine of iron.
White Horse, though, was another sort. Iron all the way through.
“He Dog Man,” said the taller of the two young Cheyennes, who was riding his roan to Wash’s right. “White Horse he Dog Man Chief.”
A Dog Soldier, Wash thought. Oh my!
Dog Soldiers were the most fearsome fighters on the plains. From what Sergeant Brown had told Wash, they were men who had made a sacred pledge to die rather than retreat from the enemy. White Horse was cupping his head with both hands like one might hold onto a cracked egg. Wash could not understand the words the Dog Soldier chief kept mumbling to himself in Cheyenne—except for one word in English that he frequently repeated, in the same tone as a curse.
“Washington!”
Wash didn’t need an interpreter to gather that things had not gone well for the Indians there. Being in the army, that was no surprise to him. Every soldier, black or white, knew that nothing good ever came out of Washington. Just trouble.
Trouble, though, Wash thought, always comes in threes.
So say that one was the wrong destination. Two was the drunk chiefs. Had to be a third one coming along soon.
And Wash was not wrong. When they finally we reached the Indian camp, trouble number three was waiting for them. In the absence of Agent Miles, a whiskey seller had found his way to White Horse’s village. There were drunk Cheyennes everywhere. Wash glanced over at the chiefs. Little Robe simply looked sadder. The other four were just shaking their heads. But White Horse’s face looked like a thundercloud.
Lieutenant Millen seemed about to ride into the middle of it. Following Sergeant Brown’s lead, the Buffalo Soldiers eased their ponies in around him to block his way.
“Sir,” Sergeant Brown said, his voice as polite as could be, “Agent Miles has asked us to hold back.”
Millen looked over his shoulder at Miles, who had stopped on his horse fifty yards back. Just sitting there. The agent held up his hand and shook his head. Millen nodded, pulling up on his reins.
Wash’s new Cheyenne friend had come up quietly on his left. Close enough that Wash was able to see a brand on the horse’s haunch. A brand on it like one he’d seen in Texas.
“Watch good,” the tall young Cheyenne said. He had a grim smile on his face.
White Horse slid off his horse. He waved one arm and shouted something at the biggest of the Cheyennes who had been drinking, a man with a bellicose scowl.
“Bear Shield,” the young Cheyenne said, pointing with his chin at the shield with a big bear paw painted on it hanging from the side of the tipi where the big Indian was leaning. “Big Chief Warrior Society.”
Bear Shield, who seemed only slightly drunk, had positioned himself between White Horse and the whiskey trader, whose wagon was parked behind Bear Shield’s lodge. The booze peddler, a red-headed, one-eyed, chubby fellow, looked happy as a pig in its sty, clearly figuring he was safe with Bear Shield and his warriors defending him. Bear Shield gestured. Half a dozen young men came up to stand behind him. Unsteady on their feet, drunk as the others.
Then Bear Shield spoke, making hand signs to emphasize his words. Wash had learned enough of Plains sign talk to understand what he was saying.
Trader friend. He stay. White Horse no drive trader away. White Horse go.
In response, White Horse turned but did not walk way. He shouted. His voice echoed through the camp. Then, one by one, from the other tipis, young men began to come out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven appeared and strode purposefully over to stand behind White Horse.
“More Dog Men,” the tall young Cheyenne said to Wash.
From their firm stance and the looks on their faces, they were among the few in the village who had not been drinking. White Horse smiled. It was not a happy smile.
Then he made his own gesture to Bear Shield.
Wait here.
White Horse disappeared behind another row of tipis. But he was not gone long.
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail he reappeared, walking stiff-legged as a mad grizzly, a
Sharps rifle cradled in his arms. No more words or gestures. He just lifted the big gun.
BLAM!
Shot between the eyes, Bear Shield’s pony dropped like a bag of sand.
Bear Shield stumbled backward, his hands up, as White Horse calmly handed the Sharps to one of the Dog Soldiers behind him and accepted a Colt revolver in its place. The six drunk men who’d come to stand with Bear Shield turned and began running for their lives. So did the whiskey trader, leaving his wagon behind, while White Horse fired one shot after another at the ground behind his fleeing feet.
As White Horse and his crew began emptying kegs and breaking whiskey bottles, the tall young Cheyenne nudged Wash with his elbow.
“Much good,” he said.
“Much good,” Wash agreed.
It had been a wasted trip. Little Robe had realized that while they were still in Washington. He was the last of the chiefs to speak when they met with White Father Grant. He had listened to all the words spoken before it was his turn.
So, when Little Robe stood up, he took a slow breath. “I have come a good ways to see the Great Father,” he said. “Now I see him. That is all I have to say.” Then he sat down.
It was soon after their return from Washington that a Great Star appeared in the sky. Each night for two moons it burned. It was so bright you could see your shadow. Many were frightened as it filled the night with a strange blue light. They thought the world was about to end. But the oldest woman among the Cheyennes was not afraid. Her name was Makes Moccasins. She had lived through ninety winters.
“I have seen such a thing before,” Makes Moccasins said. “It has come. It will go. All will be the same.”
It was as she said. The Great Star burned. Then it was gone. But the people wondered if that star was a message. Was it a warning sent by Maheo that a hard time lay ahead?
And hard times did come. The white robe of Winter Man spread over the land. It was so heavy that people froze to death in their lodges. They starved for lack of food. They froze because they could not fight through the snow and find firewood. Each time the people reported to the agency for rations the story was the same. The rations from the government had not been delivered. Without being able to hunt buffalo and with no other game, there was only one other way to get food. People began killing horses for their meat.
The buffalo hunters from Dodge City swarmed onto Cheyenne lands in ever greater numbers. They were many as maggots on the body of a dead animal. Those hunters knew that the one last big herd of buffalo still roamed to the south. They also knew that the tribes would fight to protect those sacred animals. Their greed was greater than their fear of the tribes. The treaty had promised the white men would be kept out. The white hunters broke that treaty, but no one stopped or punished them. The sheriffs ignored them. The army tried at first. The Buffalo Soldiers arrested eleven white hunters they caught on Cheyenne land.
Those eleven were not punished. Their leader, holding his hat in his hand, apologized to Friend Miles. Then Friend Miles gave them back their guns. He allowed them to leave.
“They are poor men,” Miles explained to Chief Little Robe. “They were hunting to feed their families. They have given unto me solemn promises that they will return to Kansas and not come onto your lands again.”
Little Robe watched as the men rode off, laughing. His lips were pressed tightly together. He shook his head. He knew they would be back.
White men’s promises were as empty of weight as the wind.
“Your people,” Little Robe said to Miles, “make big talk. They make war if an Indian kills a white man’s ox to keep his wife and children from starving. What do you think my people should do? How should they act when they see our buffalo killed by such men as those buffalo hunters who are not even hungry?”
Friend Miles turned and went back into his house.
Still, hard as the winter was proving to be, the Cheyennes tried to keep the peace. Hungry as they were, they held back. They did not want war. Even the Dog Soldiers waited. They would give the government another chance. Perhaps the white men would prove that the word of Washington meant more than dust blowing across the prairie.
There was little game to be found near the agency. The Indian hunters were not allowed to hunt beyond its borders. If they did so, they could be attacked by the ve’hoe soldiers.
But we have to eat, Wolf thought.
He stepped outside to greet the dawn. New snow had fallen. It was soft beneath his moccasins as he walked over to the lodge of Horse Road’s family. Before he could scratch on the door, a strong arm holding a bow was pushed out through the flap. It was followed by Horse Road’s head.
“Hunting!” Horse Road said. There was a determined look on his face. “A good day for hunting.”
He was right. Though it was midwinter, the weather had changed greatly overnight. It was no longer so cold that the grass crackled underfoot. The trees no longer popped as they froze. The deep drifts of snow were melting away. The sun was warm on their shoulders and backs. It felt like the start of the Moon of New Grass.
As they walked to their horses, Wolf and Horse Road slipped their wool blankets off their shoulders. They would still carry them along. Winter Man might return at any moment. He could freeze the whole land in a few heartbeats with his harsh breath. But Maheo seemed to smiling on them.
Maheo is helping us. Our job is a sacred one. We are going out to bring back food for the people. It is a good day to look for game. And perhaps the ve’hoe soldiers will not see us.
Too Tall and Too Short called to them as they readied their horses.
“We shall come.”
“Yes, we shall come along.”
Wolf made the sign for yes. The two brothers joined them. It would be good to have his three best friends with him.
Sun moved across the sky as they rode. The warm air smelled of spring. They rode enjoying the sense of freedom. They had
been confined so long by the cold and snow and by the boundaries of the agency. Wolf felt the muscles of his horse ripple beneath
his legs.
“You are stronger than me,” he whispered in Wind’s ear. “But soon we will find game. Then my family will eat. Then I will eat and get strong again.”
He smiled at that thought. He was hopeful. So were his three friends. But that feeling of hope began to fade by the time the sun was four hands high. They had ranged back and forth. They had studied the soft snow for tracks. They had watched the hilltops for the dark shapes of game animals. But there were no animal tracks. They saw no deer or antelope silhouetted against the sky. No hoofed animals had been out digging through the melting snow to graze on the buried grasses.
More of the good feeling left them as the day wore on. Before long, Sun was only two hands above the horizon. Would they have to turn back empty-handed? One more hill rose in front of them. It was the one called Trickster’s Hill. The story was that a big rock had been balanced on top of it. Wihio had given that stone a present and then taken it back. Then the big stone had rolled after Wihio and flattened him out.
Horse Road was riding slightly ahead of the others. He looked back over his shoulder at Wolf. Some of the mischief that had been missing came back to his face.
“Race to the top!” he shouted, kicking his heels into his horse. “Soehoetse! Charge the enemy!”
Some of the energy they’d felt when they started out came back to Wolf.
“Whee-yah,” he whooped, kicking his heels into Wind’s sides. “Charge!”
Behind him he heard Too Short and Too Tall urging their horses on. They would not catch him. Wind was too strong! He passed Horse Road just before reaching the top. Then he stopped, staring at what he saw. He heard his three friends come up behind him. They, too, stopped as he had stopped.
The four of them looked down. Below was yet another empty valley. No sign of game animals. Not even a rabbit or a prairie grouse. But the hilltop across from them was not empty. A feeling as if he had swallowed a s
tone caught in Wolf’s throat. Their hunt was over. There on that nearby hilltop were real enemies. They were not the pretend ones Horse Road had urged them to charge against.
Four mounted and well-armed men. They were close. Close enough for Wolf to see the darkness of their faces beneath their army caps. Buffalo Soldiers. Wolf held up his hand, signaling his friends to wait. Perhaps the army men would not attack. Perhaps they would just ignore them.
Then the smallest of the black white men raised his right arm. He held it palm out. It was not a signal to attack, but a greeting. And Wolf recognized him. It was the short Buffalo Soldier.
Wolf waved back, unsure of what would happen next. The small Buffalo Soldier kept his right hand up in greeting. He reached down with his other hand.
Going for his rifle? Wolf gripped Wind’s reins harder.
But the small black white man’s hand went past his scabbard. He reached behind him to untie something. A heavy-looking bag that hung from his saddle. He let it drop it on the ground. He waved. Then he and the others with him turned their horses. They disappeared over the crest of the hill.
“Shall we go see what he dropped?” Too Tall asked.
Before Wolf could answer, advising him to use caution, Too Tall was on his way. His horse chuffed out white clouds of breath. He galloped it down across the narrow valley and up the other hill.
By the time Wolf and the others caught up with him, Too Tall had already dropped from the back of his horse. He had grabbed the bag. He was dumping its contents out on the ground. Wolf shook his head in disbelief.
Food. Hard biscuits, dried meat, cans of food, each can with a picture of its contents on its top.
Beans and sweet fruit. A gift from a friend.
Wolf looked around. His friends were smiling as broadly as he was. The old and the weak would eat first. But there was enough for them as well. For this night at least, they would not sleep with their bellies cut in half by hunger.
There was this plantation on down the road, Mama said. Master Manson owned that plantation and was about as stingy as a man could be. He would not give any meat at all to his slaves. He told them if they wanted meat
Brothers of the Buffalo Page 18
