by Judd Cole
“Brothers!” said Little Horse, abruptly scattering Touch the Sky’s thoughts. “Listen!”
They sat their ponies without moving, all three falling silent. Little Horse’s keen ears were already legendary among the tribe. The trio was downwind in a gentle breeze fragrant with the smell of prairie flowers and sweet grass. The fat moon shone big and yellow almost straight overhead.
Now Touch the Sky heard it—the stiff, low creaking of saddle leather, the jangle of cinches and latigos and rowel-tipped spurs.
Caught up in their discussion, and still heady with thoughts of the tense encounter at Bull Hump’s camp, none of the braves had paid attention to the long ridge on their right. Now, even as they stared in that direction, dozens of well-armed riders charged over the ridge straight at them, gun muzzles spitting fire.
Touch the Sky realized immediately, as he dug his knees hard into the chestnut mare’s flanks, that this must be Munro’s militiamen.
“Ride like the wind itself, brothers!” shouted Little Horse. “Be one with your pony or sing the death song!”
Now lead whizzed past their ears with the sound of angry hornets. All three braves automatically dropped low and forward, into the defensive riding position for which their tribe was famous when bullets whined too close—hugging the pony’s neck close, presenting a minimal target away from the direction of attack. All the whites might glimpse was a leg hooked over the pony’s back, a face momentarily peering from under its neck.
“Hiya!” they urged their horses and rallied each other. “Hiya hi-i-i-ya!”
The attackers whooped and shouted curses behind them, their blood up for the kill. The ground thundered, horses nickered, more guns spoke their piece. Flying lead nipped at the braves’ heels and tore up clumps of sod all around them.
Touch the Sky knew their only hope now was the strength and speed of their horses. These were all broncos, selected by Knobby as the best in the herd. Broncos could make fine and gentle horses. But Touch the Sky also knew that, despite the water-starving, beatings, blindfolds, and other tricks used by white men to break their spirit, now and then their former wildness came out. When that happened, broncos galloped with a reckless abandon that was dangerous for horse and rider.
Fortunately for the Cheyennes, the broncos’ former wildness came out with a vengeance this night.
To the pursuing whites, the Cheyennes seemed to be simply an extension of the swift-as-lightning horses they rode with such astonishing skill. Steadily, one by one, the tamer mounts of the militiamen began to falter; the trio of wild Indians gradually opened the distance. Finally, when the Cheyennes were swallowed up by a dense pine forest bordering the Tongue, Danford gave the command to cease the chase.
“Leave it alone for now, boys,” he called out to his men. He holstered his big Navy Colt, butt forward to accommodate his left-handed cross-draw.
“The horses are played out. We’ll ride closer to the river and make camp for the night. I got me a gut hunch we’ll be seein’ them bucks again real soon.”
Chapter Twelve
But Fargo Danford didn’t realize exactly how soon he’d be seeing the Cheyennes again.
As it turned out, he and his men made their camp less than a mile from the three braves’ camp near the Sioux Princess. Danford picked this spot on purpose because he was due to report to his boss at the crack of dawn.
While his men snored in their bedrolls, Danford boiled himself a can of coffee. Then, with pockets of white mist still shrouding the river, he untethered the claybank and rode downstream to meet Wes Munro.
The three Cheyennes had already discussed this potential new danger of the militia reporting last night’s chase to Munro. But they mistakenly believed the militia had crossed their trail by chance—they had no idea the hired outlaws had actually watched them ruin Cries Yia Eya’s raid.
Very few whites, they all agreed, could distinguish tribes, especially in the dark. Chances were good the militia would have mistaken them for Dakota braves or neighboring Arapahos.
Thus lulling themselves with false security, exhausted, they slept soundly as Danford reported. He approached the boat quietly from upstream, and the Indian camp was well downstream from the keelboat. Thick mist separated their camp from the boat. The hissing chuckle of the current filtered out noises and made their sleep deeper. Danford had left his claybank in a spruce thicket before disappearing almost immediately inside the plank cabin.
“How’d things turn out last night?” Munro said in greeting. The keelboat skipper was still bare to the waist. A metal mirror was nailed to the wall. In the weak light of the coal-oil lamp, Munro was carefully shaving.
Hays Jackson sat at the deal table. His face was still sullen and lopsided with sleep, the left eye winking open and shut spasmodically. He poured whiskey into a metal cup of coffee and tossed it down in a few gulps.
“Jesus Christ in a buckboard!” said Danford, removing his shako hat and fanning it in front of his nose. He stared at Jackson. “Smells like something died and swole up bad in here.”
“A bunch of goddamn wimmin worry about how they smell,” said Jackson.
“Never mind that,” said Munro impatiently. “Why do you two have to scrap like dogs?”
He concentrated closer in the mirror as he slid the straight razor over the bumps of his throat. “I asked you,” he said to Danford, “how it turned out last night.”
“It turned out flatter ’n a one-sided pancake,” said Danford without further explanation.
Munro’s hand stopped moving. His eyes shifted upward to find Danford’s reflection in the mirror.
“Spell it out plain. I don’t pay you top dollar to speak in riddles.”
“Cries Yia Eya is trussed up tight in ropes, a prisoner of his tribe. And every damn one o’ them weapons you give him is in the hands of braves loyal to Bull Hump. Is that plain enough?”
Red-mottled rage crept up from Munro’s neck into his fresh-shaven face. He splashed water from the wash basin, rinsing off the remaining shaving soap. Only when the first, tight-templed throbs of anger passed did he speak again. His voice was dangerously low and calm.
“You mean to tell me you stood by and watched Bull Hump’s braves whip Cries Yia Eya? And you and your men didn’t pitch in?”
“Pitch in? Pitch in to what? Wes, I’m here to swear by the two balls of Christ there was no battle to pitch into! Thanks to three Cheyennes, it was all over faster than a starvin’ man could swallow a chokecherry.”
Danford was surprised. His remark about the Cheyennes nearly floored the other two men.
“Cheyennes?” repeated Munro in that same low, dangerously calm tone. “Three of them?”
Danford described the part the braves had played in defusing the raid.
“I tried to do for ’em,” said Danford. “My word on it, we give ’em jip. But they had fresh, faster horses. White man’s horses, though. They was all shod.”
“Was one of the bucks,” said Munro, “noticeably taller than the others? And the two smaller ones, was one stocky built, the other wiry and tough with slinking eyes that never stop moving?”
Danford’s jaw went slack. “That they be, though I couldn’t see no eyes. You know these Innuns?”
“Know them? Why, man, they’ve been drinking my coffee every day!”
Danford finally took his meaning. Understanding flashed in his eyes. “Say! You mean, them three jackleg boatmen you mentioned to me?”
His jaw clamped so hard the muscles were tightly bunched, Munro nodded. The same three boatmen who were coming between him and a wagon road that was only the beginning of huge profits and almost unlimited power.
Hays Jackson pushed away from the table, rising. He slid the Paterson Colt out of its holster. “The hell we waitin’ on? Let’s kill them slippery red devils now.”
“Put that iron away and sit down, you fool,” said Munro. “You think you’re just going to waltz up and kill those Indians? They might be young, but Gray Thunder k
new what he was doing when he sent them. Don’t sell a Cheyenne warrior short.
“Besides, I don’t want them dead just yet. I need to know how much Gray Thunder knows. I need to know how he got wind of the scheme. And I damn sure need to know how much they’ve told to anyone else.”
“See there? See there?” said Jackson. “I told you that red devil palavers English. Didn’t I say he did?”
Munro ignored him, looking at Danford. “Did anybody see you come aboard?”
“Don’t seem likely. I was quiet-like, and the mist is thick.”
Munro glanced through the cabin doorway and nodded with satisfaction. “It still is. Leave now. For all I know, they didn’t even come back last night. But if they did they’ll be coming aboard soon. I don’t want them to see you.”
“Should I have the boys resume the routine patrols?”
Munro shook his head. “No, not yet. Look here.”
He stabbed an index finger into the navigation chart on the table. “There’s a huge elbow bend in the river right before it reaches the fork with Frenchman’s Creek. You know the spot?”
Danford nodded. “That I do. There’s big salt licks there.”
“That’s the spot,” said Munro. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
~*~
If Munro and Jackson harbored any new suspicions, Touch the Sky noticed no warning. Jackson was no more or less surly than usual when they reported on deck with the rest of the crew.
Munro, as always, spent most of his time over his charts and maps. Old Knobby greeted the trio with a stealthy wink and a reassuring nod. Then he turned quickly away again to tend to the horses and mules.
Nonetheless, as he glanced upriver through the clearing mist, Touch the Sky felt his still-developing shaman’s sixth sense nettling him again.
Unfortunately, he had little time to ponder the feeling. He and Little Horse were both forced to keep a close watch on Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. Both braves had conferred in secret after yesterday’s plan was formed. They agreed that the hotheaded, arrogantly proud youth would now seize the weakest excuse to kill Jackson and Munro.
They were determined not to let his blind quest for personal glory jeopardize the entire tribe.
If the tribe must be blamed, then all the Cheyenne warriors would tread the warpath first and earn the bloody punishment that would surely come. Otherwise, with luck and help from Maiyun, the Good Supernatural, the deaths of these two murdering land-grabbers would be “accidents” spawned by the dangerous river. The tribe had suffered enough from the white man’s wrath.
All this tumbled like loose scree through Touch the Sky’s head as he manned his pole to help shove the Sioux Princess away from the grassy bank. As usual the square sail lay flat and crumpled against the mast, as dead as a spent cartridge. When the boat reached midstream, the crew manned the oars. The river was wide hereabouts, fairly unencumbered for smooth rowing.
Something suddenly occurred to Touch the Sky: Despite Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s almost taunting stares and gestures, Jackson was just as deliberately ignoring him.
Why? He had never before shown such restraint. Why now? wondered Touch the Sky.
That feeling was back, a nagging little awareness like something half-remembered, half-forgotten. But once again he had no luxury to turn over and poke through his own thoughts. Now they were approaching a huge, sharp bend. The river suddenly constricted, boiling into white froth and making rowing impractical. Nor would poles ensure safe progress through all the boulders and other debris which naturally massed at river bends.
But smooth shelves of rock had been cut out by centuries of wind and current. They followed the bend around on both banks until the river widened again. The banks were easily wide enough to accommodate many men.
“Man the cordelles!” shouted Jackson.
This was followed by the usual chorus of groans from the Creole voyageurs. The two teams grabbed the thick towing ropes and clambered over the gunnels. Those waiting on deck fed the ropes overboard to their comrades as they swam ashore and climbed up onto the rock ledges.
As the three Cheyennes prepared to leap out, Touch the Sky again glanced upriver. Now the sharp bend cut off most of his view.
Still, a cool feather of apprehension tickled the bumps of his spine.
“Brothers!” he said suddenly to the other two. “We are in danger! An enemy is hard upon us!”
Little Horse looked at him sharply. The sturdy little brave was one of the few who had noticed the mulberry-colored birthmark, shaped like an arrowhead, buried past Touch the Sky’s hairline. This tall youth was also marked as a receiver of visions. Arrow Keeper would never select any brave to learn the shaman arts unless that brave already possessed strong medicine.
“What do you mean?” demanded Little Horse. “Quickly, brother! Speak words that fit in our sashes!”
Touch the Sky shook his head, again staring toward the bend. “I cannot. Yet just now I felt it.”
“You felt only your own fear,” scoffed Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “Like women will do, you have dwelled too long on the dangers we face. Now the bowstring of your courage has frayed. Be a man and do not fear any ‘feeling’. That is a thing of smoke.”
“You goddamn red devils quit stalling!” shouted Jackson. “I said man that damn cordelle!”
“You are a pig’s afterbirth!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said to him aloud in Cheyenne. “It is common knowledge that white men rut on sheep and turn the offspring into soldiers!”
Though Jackson couldn’t understand these taunts, the other two quickly shut their companion up.
“Hump it!” Jackson snapped his whip on the deck. “Move your flea-bit asses!”
They leaped into the cold river, swam a few strokes, then waded ashore and pulled themselves up onto the nearest rock ledge. They took their usual place at the end of the line of men tugging the cordelle. Each man gripped the thick rope and strained. Little Horse was in front, followed by Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. Touch the Sky brought up the rear of the line.
“Heave!” shouted Jackson from the deck, establishing the cadence. “Heave … heave ... heave!”
Soon sweat beaded up in his scalp and rolled down into his eyes. Sometimes Touch the Sky was bent almost double as he heaved forward against the rope. He tossed his head once to throw the sweaty, long locks back out of his eyes.
For a heartbeat, in the corner of his right eye, he saw the butt of the huge Navy Colt descending fast toward his skull. A moment later a color wheel exploded inside his head. His bones seemed to become all soft marrow as he collapsed on the ledge.
Chapter Thirteen
Pain throbbed over his right temple, one moment dull, the next sharp. His entire body felt hot, and rivulets of sweat flowed down out of his thick hair, making it hard to open his eyes.
He opened them anyway, to nothing but the salt sting of sweat and a harsh yellow orb of relentless sun. Quickly he closed his eyes again. He tried to move his arms, his legs, but they refused to respond. Every slight movement of his head sent a fresh jolt of pain hammering into his skull.
“Thisen’s comin around,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Touch the Sky cocked his head out of the sun and opened one eye. From this angle he saw the white canvas flap of the square sail, now billowing as a favoring wind finally filled it.
A boat, he remembered the keelboat. These hard boards must be the planks of the deck beneath him, then. He still wasn’t quite sure yet how he got there. But it felt like the boat was gliding along at a good clip. Why couldn’t he move?
The sweat cleared from one eye. Now he saw Little Horse stretched out spread-eagle beside him on the deck. His wrists and ankles were bound in lengths of green rawhide. The rawhide had then been staked into the deck. Congealed blood traced the edges of a fresh wound on Little Horse’s forehead. Flies had begun to land in the tacky mess.
He glanced to the other side and saw Wolf Who Hunts Smiling in the same plight, his jaw bruised and swollen,
perhaps broken.
“Welcome to the white man’s West,” said Jackson’s voice. A moment later the toe of a leather boot smashed into his ribs. Touch the Sky flinched as fresh pain wracked his body.
Now two faces peered down at him, harshly back-lit by the sun. Jackson’s close-set eyes he recognized immediately, even without the nervous wink. The other man was a stranger. But no, he remembered that odd, flat hat—the leader of the exterminators of red men, who called themselves militia!
From the angle and warmth of the sun, Touch the Sky guessed it was late morning. Now the gates of memory had been flung wide, and he recalled being knocked cold on shore.
Jackson kicked him again harder, in the same spot. The force of the pain lifted Touch the Sky’s strong back up inches off the deck, straining the green rawhide. But the strong thongs held.
“Thought you was a pretty crafty Injun, dintcha?” said Jackson. “Thought you was slicker ’n snot on a saddlehorn, hah? I wager this, blanket ass. Before that green rawhide shrinks all the way, you’ll not only palaver in English, well have you singin’ ‘Loo-loo Girl!’”
Jackson kicked him in the face this time. The hob-nailed sole of his boot raked over Touch the Sky’s cheek and split it open. Warm blood trickled into one eye.
Now Touch the Sky remembered why green rawhide had been used. It would shrink tight and firm in the sun, cutting off the blood and causing excruciating pain.
“Here’s a lick for you too,” said Jackson, kicking Little Horse in the groin. “Don’t want to make you jealous of your pard.”
The sickening thud of the kick made Touch the Sky wince. Another white man, the big baldhead one he had seen riding beside the militia leader last night, stood over Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.
“Thisen ain’t quite woke up yet,” said Heck Nash. “I hit him a mite hard. Maybe a little tonic water’ll do the trick.”
