Blood on the Plains (A Cheyenne Western Book 5)

by Judd Cole

  As soon as they topped the last rise, clearly sky-lined now against the full moon, a sentry sounded the Dakota’s shrill, yipping alarm.

  By the time they were halfway down the rise, iron-shod hooves drum-beating, they heard riders galloping out to intercept them. A party of about a dozen warriors, several still naked but armed, formed a skirmish line to stop them. They had no rifles. But all had already strung an arrow into their green-oak bows.

  “Halt there or blood must flow!” commanded one of the warriors. “Why do you approach our camp at night, armed like this for battle? We know you as our friends.”

  Little Horse, who when he was younger had played with a Dakota child taken in by the tribe, spoke for them. He mixed their words with Cheyenne and Sioux words, knowing most Dakota also understood those two tongues a little.

  “Because blood will flow, and soon, brothers! We must speak with Bull Hump. Even now the hotheaded Cries Yia Eya bears down on your village, backed by rebellious warriors with blood in their eyes. They met this night with paleface dogs at Council Rock. They have new guns and plan to kill your chief. Some of your sentries are playing the dog for Cries Yia Eya and will not sound the alarm.”

  His words momentarily stunned the others into silence. Then they conferred rapidly in Dakota. One of them leaped to the ground on all fours and bent his head low, listening.

  “The tall stranger speaks straight-arrow,” he confirmed. “Riders approach! Many, and rapidly!”

  “I will alert Bull Hump and check the tipis,” said another, “and see who is missing.” He rode quickly back down toward camp.

  Still, the remaining sentries were cautious.

  “Sadly, we do not find your words about Cries Yia Eya difficult to believe. But you must surrender your weapons before we take you to Bull Hump,” said the first brave. “You may speak from two sides of your mouth.”

  The Cheyennes did not object, knowing this was only a proper precaution. The Dakota braves quickly led them into camp. Dogs, upset by these unfamiliar actions, barked and yowled. Already the women and children and elders were gathering near the river. They were desperately searching out places where they had cached buffalo-hide rafts. At the first signal, they would ferry across the river and take to the secret escape routes.

  Chief Bull Hump met the new arrivals in front of his tipi. He was an old man of perhaps seventy winters, and clearly in ill health. His skin sagged off his bones like the loose coat of an old hound. He wore his long white hair parted in the middle and brushed back behind his ears. But in a defiant gesture, he had donned his bone breastplate over his blanket.

  Bull Hump spoke the Cheyenne language. Quickly Little Horse explained the desperate situation facing his village. Bull Hump’s leather-cracked face showed nothing. But it was clear from the deep furrow between his eyes that all of this seemed highly suspicious to him.

  “You say you are from Gray Thunder’s band? Then do you know Arrow Keeper?”

  It was Touch the Sky who spoke up. “I am his assistant in the shaman arts, Father. He is training me to be a medicine man.”

  Bull Hump leaned close to Touch the Sky, squinting. Arrow Keeper was the most respected Cheyenne on all the Plains. If Arrow Keeper had truly chosen this tall young buck to be his assistant, his honesty would be beyond challenging.

  “If you know Arrow Keeper well,” said Bull Hump, “tell me this. What does he always carry in his medicine bag, besides the totem of his Owl Clan?”

  This question stumped Little Horse and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. But Touch the Sky spoke up without hesitating.

  “He always carries his magic bloodstone, Father, which makes his tracks difficult for his enemies to find.”

  Bull Hump nodded once, his face still an impassive mask of cracked leather. But he turned to the sentries, and his next words showed that he was now convinced.

  “These brave Cheyenne youths speak with one tongue. Every warrior must make ready his rig for battle, now!”

  But more bad news arrived. The sentry who had checked the tipis now rode up.

  “Bull Hump, our best fighters are missing! Your cousin Red-tailed Hawk and his party are not due back from the trading post in Red Shale for two more sleeps. The others must be following Cries Yia Eya. We have only a handful of blooded warriors, none with fire sticks.”

  Now Bull Hump was desperate as he remembered—Red-tailed Hawk and his band of fifteen seasoned fighters, all loyal to Bull Hump, had taken travois loaded with beaver pelts to trade for rifles and bullets.

  And even now, from the north approach to camp, came the sound of many riders drawing closer.

  “Dakota Father,” said Touch the Sky, “I ask your pardon for speaking up so boldly. But we are the fighting Cheyenne, and we are keen for this battle! Cries Yia Eya plays the dog for whites who are stealing our homeland along with yours. We have discussed a plan to remove the tip from the lance. Give us ropes, Father. Then form up your warriors around your tipi and wait. If we fail, soon enough the bloody battle will come to you.”

  Bull Hump had no choice but to place his fate in the hands of these three brave Cheyennes. Perhaps, after all, they had been sent by the Great Spirit for just this purpose. He nodded, ordering one of the sentries to give the young warriors buffalo-hair ropes.

  The three braves had followed Knobby’s advice in forming their plan. They would use the strategy of the buffalo hunt. Hunters never attacked an entire herd—they isolated part of it from the rest, then closed for the kill.

  Now the attackers had nearly gained the final tree-pocked slope which descended into camp from the north end of the village. The Cheyennes raced forward, knowing that every moment counted now. Touch the Sky and Little Horse had successfully used ropes to disrupt an attack on the Hanchon spread at Bighorn Falls. They had decided to try their rope trick once again. They knew that the fiery Cries Yia Eya would be riding in front of his warriors.

  They reached a spot where a cottonwood and a scrub pine grew across from each other on opposite sides of the sloping approach. Quickly, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling rode out ahead and took up a position behind another tree with his Colt.

  Touch the Sky and Little Horse dismounted and slapped their horses hard on the flanks, scattering them. Then, moving rapidly, they stretched the rope out between them and then each hid behind one of the trees.

  They were not a moment too soon. Throwing all caution to the wind, Cries Yia Eya raised a hideous war cry as his powerful buckskin leaped over the top of the rise and plunged down toward the quiet village. The ground thundered and vibrated as the main body poured over the rise behind him.

  Cries Yia Eya held his new Hawken under one arm. Touch the Sky and Little Horse waited until the last possible moment. Then Touch the Sky shouted, “Now, brother!”

  Rapidly, deftly, they snubbed each end of the rope several turns around the trees. This left it almost three feet off the ground. The sure-footed pony saw it and leaped at the last moment. For a heartbeat Touch the Sky’s hopes sank—now the village was doomed!

  Then one rear hoof snagged hard on the rope, it held, and with incredible speed and force the buckskin crashed muzzle first into the ground.

  Cries Yia Eya lost his rifle as he tumbled forward in a fast somersault. He slammed into the ground, stunned. Before he could recover and rise, Touch the Sky had raced out from the right flank. Now he rammed the muzzle of his Sharps into the rebellious sub chief’s neck. He spoke in Cheyenne, but his meaning was deadly clear.

  “One twitch, and you cross over tonight!”

  The surprised warriors, following hard upon Cries Yia Eya’s heels, reined their ponies hard to avoid trampling him. They flowed past their downed leader like a raging river parting around a huge boulder in midstream. As a brave lifted his rifle to fire at the lone, brazen Cheyenne, a shot rang out from Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s position.

  The brave’s shield flew from his hand as Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s bullet struck it. The Cheyennes had already agreed to avoid shedding bloo
d after dark—a serious taboo to their tribe—except as a last resort. A second Dakota brave raised his pistol to fire at Touch the Sky.

  Now Little Horse fired his scattergun into the trees, the buckshot raising a loud clatter. He quickly rotated all four barrels and fired them in succession. The roar of the shotgun was deafening and spooked several of the Dakota ponies. Deflected buckshot rained down on the warriors and many of them flinched.

  By now Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had loaded another primer cap and blown a brave’s war bonnet off his head. This unexpected armed resistance, and the capture of their leader, confused the others. Where had the tribe gotten guns, and how many? Rumors suddenly flew through their midst that Red-tailed Hawk and the rest must have returned early with new munitions. Many now believed they were under heavy defensive attack and retreated back over the rise.

  “Your war leader is only a bullet away from death!” shouted Little Horse in his odd blend of Dakota and Cheyenne. “Look near the river! Your wives and children and old grandmothers huddle in fear—those whom you are sworn to protect! Even now your old chief stands bravely in front of his tipi, prepared to die like a man. Who among you will shamelessly shed Bull Hump’s blood?”

  Cries Yia Eya tried to shout out something. But Touch the Sky growled like an angry beast and threw his weight into the rifle. The notched sight pressed into Cries Yia Eya’s throat hard enough to choke his words off.

  About half the warriors remained, uncertain what to do, wondering if they were surrounded by Cheyennes—certainly no warriors to be trifled with. Then one of them shouted something and pointed down toward camp. The others looked where he pointed and fell silent.

  Chief Bull Hump, alone, walked slowly up the slope toward them. Eerie silver moonlight gleamed off his bone breastplate. In the ghostly light the pale, gaunt figure looked almost like a spirit wraith from a medicine vision. Ten paces out from Touch the Sky and the prisoner, he stopped.

  “Dakota warriors!” he shouted. “Here stands your chief unarmed, with the yellow leaves of age clinging to the brow where once a dark mane flew as he raced into battle! Kill him, then, and follow Cries Yia Eya! Follow the red traitor who has sold your buffalo ranges for brutal power!

  “Kill your chief now, as the women and children watch from the river. Kill him! And let he who sends this old warrior under also boast how, like Cries Yia Eya, he played the white man’s dog, while young Cheyenne strangers fought for the Dakota people!”

  These words had a profound effect on the remaining warriors. Their shame now was almost palpable. One after another they lowered their weapons, some dropping them to the ground.

  Then, to the last man, they folded their arms in the universal Indian sign for peace, and Touch the Sky knew the immediate crisis was over.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fargo Danford sat astride his big claybank on a long ridge overlooking Bull Hump’s Dakota village from the south.

  In the generous light of the full moon, he had watched the drama unfold below as if he were a spectator in a huge outdoor theater. The action had been exciting enough, he conceded. Damned entertaining, actually. Those three bucks were young, but clearly not the type to rabbit at the first sound of a war whoop.

  But Wes Munro was definitely going to be unhappy.

  To one side of Danford, Heck Nash sat his saddle on the big roan stallion. The sawed-off scattergun which had destroyed Smiles Plenty’s face was balanced across his saddletree.

  “Where in blazes did them three come from?” said Nash, watching three Indians ride away in single file from Bull Hump’s village. “From Smoke Rising’s camp?”

  Danford shook his head. The brim of his flat leather shako hat left most of his face in shadow. “Them ain’t ’Rapaho. Them’s Cheyennes.”

  “In a pig’s ass! There’s no Cheyenne camp hereabouts.”

  “Well, then, could be they just dropped down from the moon. But them’s Cheyennes.”

  “Might be Cheyennes,” said a third man in the group, which remained slightly down ridge from the other two. “But I scouted for the 2nd Cavalry, and I by God know shod horses when I hear them. Those red varmints’re ridin’ shod horses.”

  Danford nodded. “That they be, that they be. Makes a man a mite curious, don’t it?”

  Wes Munro had ordered Danford and his men to stand by during the assault by Cries Yia Eya and his renegades. Their orders were to sit tight unless the fight went badly for the rebels.

  But what fight? Danford thought now. Those three upstart braves had quickly unstrung the attackers’ nerves, and not one drop of Indian blood had stained the earth.

  Danford realized it was pointless to attack the village now. His militia group was some two dozen strong, a formidable, well-armed force. But he knew the point was not simply to kill redskins—it was to make sure that the big chiefs were all drinking out of Munro’s trough.

  And those three Cheyennes, wherever the hell they’d come from, were obviously dead set against letting that happen. But how did they know about the plan for tonight? Munro had sworn it was secret.

  He watched the three Cheyennes crest a long bluff, riding due east. The fat, butter-colored moon sat suspended on a low line of hills beyond them. For a moment the three figures slid across the lunar face, darkly silhouetted. It almost seemed as if they had fallen down out of the moon just in the nick of time, and were now returning inside.

  White man’s shod horses. They stole them then, thought Danford. That made them hostiles. But then, he agreed with the philosophy of some of the army commanders: All Indians were hostiles.

  Wherever they came from, it was time to settle their hash. Danford had a job to do if he wanted to collect his wages. He told himself he damn straight wasn’t about to let a trio of flea-bitten blanket asses come between this dog and his meat.

  “Gee-up, you ornery, ugly, hard-cussin’ bachelors of the saddle!” Danford called out to the rest. “Let’s take some of the starch outta them red Arabs!”

  He put hard spur to his mount, and the big claybank leaped off down the side of the ridge. With a whoop, his men followed him.

  ~*~

  As they returned to the river, the Cheyennes boasted as all Indian braves do after a victory.

  “Brothers,” said Little Horse, “did you see Cries Yia Eya’s face as he flew over his pony’s ears? I did not—all I could see was his rump!”

  “And did you see the others flinch and duck when Little Horse rained buckshot down on them?” said Touch the Sky. “From their frightened faces, I thought we had perhaps woken the children!”

  Their bull was down,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, “so the herd ran over a cliff!”

  All three Cheyennes laughed at that. For this moment, at least, the enmity between Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and the other two seemed forgotten.

  But much had been left in doubt, and the three young bucks did not celebrate long as reality again set in. Cries Yia Eya had been taken prisoner even as they left, true. But how strong was his influence among the younger braves?

  Exile from the tribe might not remove the threat. Unlike the Cheyenne, the Arapaho did practice capital punishment. But would Bull Hump, an old and ailing chief, be strong enough to enforce such a punishment?

  Even worse, what lay ahead as the Tongue River wound its way into the country of the Shoshone, the Gros Ventres?

  “Brothers,” said Little Horse suddenly, “why ride back to the keelboat at all? True, we might be able to help as we did this night. But we already know the plans of the white dogs. Why not hurry back to our people, report this at council, and join the war party which will surely return?”

  The other two reflected on this. It was Wolf Who Hunts Smiling who spoke.

  “Because,” he replied slowly, “it is better to stay and do the thing ourselves. The old hair-face spoke right. Kill the queen and the hive is lost. It will take many sleeps to return to camp, then ride out again painted for battle. We can kill these two whites and help our tribe avoid a terrib
le battle.”

  “But this decision would be without benefit of council. Chief Gray Thunder spoke wisely,” objected Little Horse, “when he said no people are more terrible than the whites in their thirst for revenge when Indians kill their own.”

  “So? The war party you speak of would attract even more notice from the whites,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.

  “True,” agreed Touch the Sky. “But what if the two paleface dogs met a terrible accident? A death that could not be blamed on the red man? This is not unlikely on so hard and dangerous a journey.”

  Now the other two braves watched him closely, hungry for more.

  “This time I think the hot-tempered Wolf Who Hunts Smiling is right,” said Touch the Sky. “True, we have no permission from the Councilors to act on our own. But are we not warriors? Is our tribe, and many others, not in grave danger? These white devils have killed Smoke Rising. How many others would have gone under this very night? I say, we return to the boat and watch for our chance. These paleface swindlers drew first blood!”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling stopped riding and thrust out his lance.

  “I have ears for these words! This is not drawing first blood, so we are not sullying the Sacred Arrows. Let us swear on it, bucks! If we fall, it will be on our enemy’s bones!”

  All three warriors crossed lances and pledged themselves to the victory.

  Yet despite this warrior’s oath the three swore as one, Touch the Sky was worried. There was a strong, ambitious gleam in Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s eye—the same urgent glint he had seen on the night when, disobeying orders, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had tried to raise a sleeping Pawnee’s scalp. He had thus roused the enemy camp and caused the death of Swift Canoe’s twin brother, True Son. To this day Swift Canoe blamed Touch the Sky for that.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was young, with only seventeen winters behind him. But his ears were full of tales of Indians with only twenty winters who had nonetheless led great tribes into battle. And Touch the Sky now suspected that the good of the tribe had little to do with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s intentions—it was personal glory he wanted to wrap himself in. No doubt he was determined to have Munro’s scalp dangling off his clout.