by J. R. WRIGHT
“We’re not talking any small number of Indians here, James! The Cheyenne alone must number in the many thousands. Throw in the Arapaho and the combined Sioux tribes, and you have the makings for a massive Indian war,” Luke said. “But that’s not my concern right now. I have to get to Chaska and warn him of what is about to happen. I need to leave tonight.”
“Exactly!” Bordeaux agreed. “But you also need to rest yourself and your horses. I see no sense in going off half-cocked without some reasonable planning. If you do, you’ll more than likely find yourself on foot out there somewhere, lost. And then what good will you be to your son, Tom? Lieutenant Farnsworth mentioned June twenty-sixth. I believe that must be the date set for a final assault, once the various tribes are located. That’s eight days from now, Tom. So you have some time.”
“Good. Then I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” Luke turned to his daughter beside him, who was trying to get his attention by pulling on his sleeve. “Yes, Tana?”
“Is my brother, Chaska, in trouble, Daddy?”
“Not yet, honey. Now, don’t you worry your pretty head about that, okay?” He pulled her in for a hug.
Cola smiled warmly at the two of them. “Tana, would you like to get clean forks for everyone?”
“Yes, please.” Tana Star slid off her chair and followed behind Cola to a nearby counter, where a fresh baked apple pie sat waiting to be cut and brought to the table.
“Breanne will be here in a week or so,” Luke couldn’t help but say, even amid thoughts of the formidable task that faced him.
“That’s wonderful news, Tom,” Cola said and brought the pie and extra plates over.
Bordeaux wondered what happened to the husband, but wouldn’t ask in front of the child. When Tom was here before, he didn’t get into it. Maybe it’s best he left that alone until Tom was ready to tell him.
“Who’s Breanne?” Tana Star asked, climbing up on her father’s lap, fork in hand, positioning herself for sharing in his slice of pie, when served.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On the morning of the third day after leaving Fort Laramie, Luke crossed the Cheyenne River. The trip had been mundane up until now, him having traveled a well-beaten road that led straight for the Black Hills, visible in the distance. It reminded him of the Oregon Trail in the early days, before the railroad came, grassless and dusty, a mile wide. And like the Oregon Trail of old, there was a smattering of wagon trains, large and small, scattered all along the way. In this case, though, there were a goodly number of single riders, and even some walkers, leading heavily burdened mules. And all, it seemed, were in a big hurry to strike it rich.
Cutting northwest now to give a wide berth to the Black Hills and the bluecoats who would surely be patrolling there, Luke scanned the horizon at every opportunity on this endless rolling plain, looking for signs of impending danger.
That came later in the day, when Luke reached the area where the Dakotah-Lakhota village had been when last he visited. By the looks of what was left behind, it appeared they had pulled up stakes in a huge hurry. Some tepees were left standing, and a half butchered antelope lay among the rubble.
Then, off at least a mile distant, he noticed a small band of Indians, silhouetted between him and the glare of a setting sun. Waiting then until the sun was less direct in its glinting over the far hills, he pulled the glass and made the riders out to be Cheyenne. This set him to wondering what they were doing in this area. The normal hunting grounds for the Cheyenne were much farther west and south of here, he knew. But perhaps they weren’t hunting. At least not for game. Then another surprise came when more of them appeared on the hill tops, perhaps thirty or forty in all now. And some of those were clearly buckskinned clad Oglala, or similarly dressed Brule Sioux.
What had brought normally warring tribes together like this, Luke questioned? Then he remembered Chaska having mentioned something like this may occur due to the efforts of a young Hunkpapa holy man named Thathanka Lyotake (Sitting Bull), who had for years sent regular emissaries to all tribes on the northern plains in an effort to accomplish peace among them. And wisely this was done for the purpose of unifying all plains Indians against the ever more pervasive invasion of their lands by whites. Apparently it had worked, if what he now saw may be taken as proof of that.
Hoping he hadn’t been spotted, Luke took the horses below where he was to a nearby treed ravine. There, he tied them on loose ropes so they could graze on some clumps of switch grass thereabouts, then climbed again to the crest. For a good while he watched as the Indians drifted off to the north and eventually out of sight. So as not to be out in the open again until they were safely out of the area, Luke rejoined the horses, spread his bedroll, and stretched out to rest his aching back. Unexpectedly, however, he fell fast asleep.
But not for long. An unexpected sound brought him awake again, just after sundown. He thought it strange a crow would be making cawing sounds while crickets chattered further down the ravine. The horses must have thought it strange as well, because even though remaining vocally silent, they began tugging at the ropes that tied them.
Bad back or not, Luke laid a hand on the Winchester by his side, rolled to his stomach, and began crawling from where he was. Sixty feet away he reached a patch of close-set young prairie pines and slithered in among them. This time of day, with darkness coming on fast, he was confident the evergreens would sufficiently hide him, but what of the horses? With them near in plain sight and panicked, no doubt he would be discovered if it were Indians nearby. Had the ones he saw earlier spotted him and circled back for a closer look?
That, however, became a certainty just minutes later when they began openly talking among themselves. This, of course, set off the horses, which now screamed loudly and unmercifully lunged against the ropes that bound them.
Most of the talk at first was in Cheyenne, of which Luke understood little. But occasionally some Sioux came through. One bit he did hear, among all the commotion and noise being made by the horses was: “White man hides in trees. I see him crawl there. Not come out.”
Another then responded, almost frantically, “Don’t harm him! I know this one!”
The voice of that one sounded awfully familiar; whiny and high pitched, most likely from the not so distant past. But for the life of him, Luke couldn’t place it.
“The Lakhota call this one Dawn.”
“Ahu-poh!” another said in agreement.
And then the biggest shock of all came when the one with the high-pitched voice said in plain English, “Tom Hill should come out. You are among friends.”
From that, Luke now remembered who this person was. It was James and Cola Bordeaux’s Oglala friend, Chatawinna (Left Handed Woman). Reflecting now, he also remembered, even though Chatawinna often dressed in fancy beaded buckskin dresses and wore his hair braided tight like a woman’s, he wasn’t a female, at least in body. That was told to him by Cola. How she knew that, he didn’t want to know. But they were close. Actually, it was Cola that had taught Chatawinna English, as he had often hung around the store as a child.
And with that, Luke stood and walked out into the faint light, rifle by his side, right hand extended high, palm forward. “Chatawinna,” he said as he came up.
“What brings Tom Hill so far from the fort?”
“I should ask you the same thing,” Luke said, since Chatawinna’s tribe, for as long as he could remember, had been Fort Indians, camped near Laramie. That is except for that brief time in 1854 when all the Indians left there, fearing retaliation after the Grattan affair.
“Well,” Chatawinna said, “since it appears you are not going to tell me why you are here, then I must assume you have smelled trouble. That is usually when you show up, isn’t it, Tom Hill? When the red man needs you to smooth over a dispute?”
“I guess,” Luke said, not knowing exactly how to answer that.
“Maybe not this time,” Chatawinna said. “This time there will be no reasoning things ou
t, I’m afraid. This time the red man will need to fight their own battles.”
“Perhaps. But I can try, can’t I?”
“Every man has the right to decide when he will die.” Chatawinna glared. “I would not want my eyes to see that, after all these years. Take my advice for once and go home, my friend.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Luke responded.
“I didn’t think so,” Chatawinna said, with a smile now. “Then Tasunke Witko (Crazy Horse) will want to speak with you,” Chatawinna returned as the others about kept their distance. “He was only a boy of fifteen when he watched from above as you defended the women and children in the caves at Spring Creek, near Ash Hollow, from woman-killer Harney’s army. He has much respect for you, my friend.”
“And I would like to speak with him. Where is he?”
“He is at the warrior camp. I will take you to him,” Chatawinna said with another smile. “But first you should calm your horses. They do not seem to understand we are friends.”
By the time Luke and Chatawinna rode away to the north, most of the other warriors had already gone. Only two others remained. And at some point during the night, the four of them reached a river that flowed through a deep valley. It was a place unfamiliar to Luke. There they halted and a very large fire was built. Luke knew from experience this was done of purpose to signal their location. Undoubtedly word had been taken to Crazy Horse, and he would be coming to them, instead of the other way around. Obviously, it was a ploy to keep the location of their warrior camp secret. He couldn’t blame them for that, if they were in war. But were they?
Chatawinna, who hardly shut up the entire trip, had given nothing away as to why they traveled with Cheyenne, or why a special warrior camp was needed. And where was everyone else, including the Lakhota, he wondered?
It wasn’t until daybreak that Crazy Horse arrived. And during that time, Luke had gathered only a few hours of sleep, away from the fire with his horses tied close.
Since the two of them had not formally met, Chatawinna did the introductions. Along with Crazy Horse was another painted warrior chief named Phizi (Gall) of the Hunkpapa.
No sooner had they sat down when Crazy Horse, a large man in his mid-thirties, with a stern face and sharp brown eyes, asked in Oglala: “Were you sent by the bluecoats to scold us for what we did a few days ago?”
“I know nothing of what happened a few days ago,” Luke returned. He made a point to keep eye contact with both men to appear truthful, which he was. Chatawinna had shared nothing with him about any battle with soldiers. Or anything else for that matter.
“Soldiers come from the south without warning. They attack our villages while we sleep – kill many of our peoples – take many Indian horses – burn tepees. Our people scatter into the hills. They number only half our warriors, so we gather again and go back for horses. This time in fair fight we break like a twig,” Crazy Horse said, proudly going through the motions. “Many bluecoats die. What remained of them limped away like snake bit dogs in the night.”
Gall puffed out his chest during the telling as well.
“I am not interested in that,” Luke said sternly, keeping his face expressionless, even though he was devastated by the news. With that revelation, the war he feared would erupt over this campaign shockingly had begun. Going by what Bordeaux had said, it must have been Crook’s force of a thousand men coming up from the south that they had tangled with. If so, then the combined warrior force must number near two thousand, if Crazy Horse’s calculation was correct. “I am only concerned with the new location of the Lakhota Village.”
“What interest do you have in them?” Gall, a wild eyed warrior, and the smaller of the two, asked.
Luke had a bit of trouble understanding the question. The Hunkpapa dialect, even though the tribe was Sioux, and a distant cousin to the Oglala, was enough different to make it difficult, and Gall had offered no hand signs. Thankfully, then Chatawinna stepped in and did the interpretation. But now that he knew the question, how was he going to answer it? Why not the truth?
“I have family among them. I fear for their safety.”
With that, Gall began jabbering in his strange tongue to Crazy Horse, and again Chatawinna had to jump in to save the day.
“Tom Hill is related to James Bordeaux,” Chatawinna explained as best he could. “Bordeaux’s adopted daughter is the wife of Tom Hill’s son.”
Anyone who had spent time in the Indian Village near Fort Laramie years back, as Crazy Horse had, knew who James Bordeaux was. He was often among them, trading white man made things for furs. Gall, on the other hand, was left in the dark here. The Hunkpapas were from an area much farther to the north, near the mouth of the Yellowstone, on the Missouri River.
“Your son is Indian?” Crazy Horse asked.
“My son was raised Indian, yes,” Luke said, and this seemed to make them both, Crazy Horse and Gall, very happy. But neither voiced a connection between Luke to Chaska, which may or may not have helped him. Chatawinna, however, gave Luke a glancing look that told him the ice may be a little thin in this area, and it was best not expound on what was already said.
“The Lakhota are weak,” Crazy Horse then said. “We have only a handful of warriors from them.”
Now Luke wondered whether Tom Too was among them, but decided not to ask. “Are you expecting any more trouble from the bluecoats?”
“It is my belief that they will not stop coming now until they are all dead,” Crazy Horse said almost gleefully as he brought jiggling fingers down from high, like rain. “Our holy man, Sitting Bull, already see this in a dream. Big battle… all soldiers die.”
Again a chill went up Luke’s spine, instantly fearing this had shown on his face. “Will it be difficult for me to find the village of the Lakhota?”
“There is no village of the Lakhota!” Crazy Horse said in a gruff, almost angry, tone. “All people in one place. If you are so determined, then let Chatawinna take you there.”
With that, Luke glanced to the concerned face of Chatawinna. Reluctantly, then, he nodded.
Accepting that, Crazy Horse promptly got to his feet. “We must go now.” He then did the unexpected. As Luke came up, Crazy Horse pulled him in for an embrace. “May the mighty spirits let the warm winds of heaven caress your soul, Tom Hill!”
Not knowing what to say to that, Luke simply returned, “Lah mah yey!” (Thank you). He then watched from where he stood as the two of them ran to their ponies, mounted with a single leap, and hastily rode away.
Minutes later, Luke and Chatawinna were heading north again. Just the two of them, this time. The others had gone with Crazy Horse and Gull.
“It is far,” Chatawinna said before kicking his horse into the lead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Throughout the day and into the night, they traveled at a brisk pace until the horses could hardly go any longer. On a hilltop, then, with a moonlit view all around, they made a cold camp. Luke shared what remaining oats he had along with Chatawinna’s horse before spreading his bedroll and lying on it to gather some much needed rest.
“How much farther?” Luke asked, once flat on his aching back.
“The campfires can be seen from here,” Chatawinna said from a sitting position nearby.
Luke lifted to his elbows and saw nothing until a faint glow on the far horizon to the northeast captured his attention. “How far is that?”
“You are seeing the soldier camps, where you are looking.” Chatawinna giggled like a young girl. “With such big fires, they must think they are so mighty no one will come for them.” He then pointed to the west. “The villages are there.”
Again Luke looked, this time west, and still saw nothing. “How far?”
“Over that high ridge, one hour ride.”
“I guess I’m going blind,” Luke finally said and fell back to his bedroll. “I still can’t see it.”
“That’s because your eyes search for fire.” Chatawinna giggled
again. “When it is smoke you ought to be looking for.”
As much as he hated to, Luke raised up again. This time he saw what Chatawinna was talking about. A long, thin cloud of white smoke, barely visible in the moonlight, stretched for miles over the ridge of hills. And more appeared farther north from there. “Are they all there?”
“Most of them. Even the Cheyenne are camped in the valley.”
Luke knew better than to ask how many, but did it matter? Certainly more than enough to run roughshod over the army camped northeast of here, if Bordeaux’s numbers were correct. Especially since Crazy Horse had already crippled Crook’s command to the south. The army would have to know, but not before he had a chance to warn Chaska of the impending danger. In any war people died on both sides, and it would be no different with this one, he was certain.
The following morning before daybreak, Luke and Chatawinna parted company. Luke headed west, and Chatawinna south to rejoin Crazy Horse and the warriors. Little did either of them know, but the warriors, all two thousand or more of them, had already settled back into the larger camps to the west.
An hour later, Luke lay belly down in tall green grass, panning the brass telescope over a never ending string of Indian encampments below. It was clear the Cheyenne were farthest to the south. Next were the Arapaho, and then for as far as he could see, before a bend in the valley cut off his view, it was the various tribes of the Sioux nation. Not seeing any Dakotah or Lakhota tepees among those visible, Luke collapsed the glass and side stepped down the hill to the horses. Then, two miles farther up, he again went to the ridge top, hoping to find what he was looking for there. But what he found instead was forty or so yelping warriors charging their horses up the hill toward him.
