by Judd Cole
Moments later something warm splashed off the deck near him, and Touch the Sky realized with a shudder of disgust and murderous rage—the paleface devil was making water in Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s face!
“H’ar now!” Touch the Sky recognized Old Knobby’s angry voice. “Them’s Injuns, mebbe, but a Christian man doan even treat a dog that low.”
“You put a cork in it, you old pus-gut,” said Jackson, “or we’ll stretch your worthless, Injun-lovin’ hide out beside ’em.”
“Doan step in nothin’ you can’t wipe off,” Knobby warned him defiantly. Now Touch the Sky could see him. The old man brandished his Kentucky over-and-under flintlock. “Ye’ll speak direct to this gal afore ye hurt her sweetheart.”
“You hear that old fart threaten me, Heck?” he said to the baldhead paleface. “I reckon old dogs growl even after they lose their teeth.”
Wes Munro spoke quietly from the open doorway of the cabin, his words meant only for Jackson. “That old dog might yet kill both of us, you jackass. He had plenty of teeth when the Mandans and Crows hit us, didn’t he? Don’t force his hand. And you better chew on this too—the old man had to know the Indians have been riding the horses. Why do you suppose he’s kept his mouth shut about it? Just whose colors do you think he’s flying?”
“Sonofabitch,” said Jackson. “Why, that old fart has got a set on him!”
Touch the Sky could hear only the sound of their voices, not the words. Munro added something else in his quiet voice. Then, mercifully, their tormentors left them alone for a while. But the sun and the shrinking rawhide quickly took over where the white devils had left off.
The pain in his wrists and ankles soon made his throbbing temple seem like a breeze caught in a tornado. He felt his hands and feet going numb as the thongs shrank in the hot sun. It felt like all four limbs were slowly being amputated.
Occasionally, Munro glanced out of the cabin at the three supine prisoners. He knew the Cheyenne tribe well enough to know that torturing a good brave for information was a tricky business, much like breaking green horses to leather. The spirit had to be broken first; the will to fight had to be destroyed.
That would be the job of those rawhide thongs, plus a little extra hell thrown in for good measure now and then by Jackson and the militiamen. Hell, they had to have some fun. But Munro kept an eye on his men—he didn’t want the Cheyennes beaten so senseless they couldn’t answer his questions when the time came.
And they would answer his questions. All in good time. Plenty of investors back East had sunk capital into this venture. How could he return and report to them that savage, half-naked people who couldn’t even record their own language had stumped him?
He had a plan. The threat of bodily harm to themselves might not be enough to break these stone-faced young warriors. But how would they respond if their refusal to cooperate hurt their companions instead?
Munro had studied the bucks closely during the voyage. The tall one who obviously knew English was tight as ticks with the powerfully built smaller brave. The other one, the sullen one with the furtive, swift-moving eyes, seemed aloof from both of them.
It was time to test his plan.
He went out on deck. The Sioux Princess still made good time, her square sail fat with favoring wind. A dozen men were rowing, assisting the wind against the current. Munro felt Etienne’s gaze on him. But as usual when he glanced in the Creole leader’s direction, the man was looking somewhere else.
That’s another good reason, thought Munro, for cutting short the men’s fun with the captives earlier. Though the voyageurs had remained aloof from the Cheyennes, a certain esprit bred from mutual suffering and hardship had sprung up. Etienne had watched Jackson with contemptuous hatred when he was kicking the braves, Munro recalled.
So it was best to keep it fast and quiet and effective.
Jackson and Heck Nash were sharing a bottle of whiskey at the stern of the boat. Munro waited impatiently until he had Jackson’s attention. Then he nodded once. Jackson nodded back and handed the bottle back to Nash. On his way to join his boss, he paused to snatch a belaying pin out of its hole in the gunnel. It was a short but solid and heavy iron peg used for securing gear.
Touch the Sky was lost in a foggy delirium of pain. He was slow to register the image when Munro squatted down beside him and looked square into his face. His captor spoke in his halting but serviceable mixture of Cheyenne and Sioux.
“I know you speak English. For now, just tell me this. What orders did Gray Thunder give you?”
“Get downwind of me, you stinking mound of manure,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. He spoke with difficulty, the words slurred through his swollen jaw and lips. “Cheyenne braves will live to bull your mother and sisters while you watch!”
Munro ignored the snarling youth behind him. “I said, what orders did Gray Thunder give you?”
“He told me, as he told all of us, to work hard and not to shame our tribe.”
“That’s all he told you? You’re sure?”
“He also said,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling interrupted, “that white men eat their newborns as will a cat! And that they smell worse than a camp dog’s crotch! In these things he spoke straight.”
“Cheyenne!” It was Little Horse who spoke, admonishing Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “Are you a woman, to chatter so at our enemy? Men save their anger for deeds, not words.”
“I’m saying it one last time: What else did your chief tell you?” repeated Munro.
“He reminded me to follow the Cheyenne way in all matters.”
“Did he now? What else?”
“Nothing else. What have we done that is wrong?”
“What you just did wrong,” said Munro, giving the signal to Jackson, “was that you refused to cooperate. And that refusal may have crippled your friend for life.”
Pain jolted through Touch the Sky as Munro suddenly seized his head and turned it, forcing him to watch. Moving swiftly in spite of his bulk and drunkenness, Jackson pulled the belaying pin out from his sash. He bent low over Little Horse, took quick aim, then swung the pin with all his might, grunting loud at the effort. His blow smashed the tied-down warrior’s right kneecap.
There was a fast, hard crack like green willow snapping. The surprised shriek this forced from Little Horse spooked the horses and made Nash drop his bottle overboard. Moaning, Little Horse went into shock and semi consciousness.
Despite the terrible pain caused by the shrinking cords, Touch the Sky strained against them in rage. His murderous dark eyes shifted between Munro and Jackson. The latter chuckled as he rose again and slipped the iron peg back into his sash.
“Hell, it was like smashing a clamshell with a brick. That buck won’t be doin no war dances for a while.”
Munro brought his smooth-shaven face within inches of Touch the Sky’s. “I’ll be back later to ask you some more questions. Now you’ve seen what your refusal to help causes. Think about it. At least this time your friend is still alive.”
Chapter Fourteen
Touch the Sky did think about what Munro said. He thought long and deep, when the increasing pain from the shrinking rawhide would let him think.
He thought about it while Little Horse groaned at the double torture of shrinking cords and a shattered knee—this brave and true friend whose swift, sure movements had earned him his name. Never again would he glide with the lithe grace of a shadow.
Touch the Sky thought of this and much more. When Munro and Jackson returned, toward the end of the long afternoon, Touch the Sky had made up his mind. They were dead no matter what he said or didn’t say. But saying one thing might get him untied. And that, at least, would be one last chance.
“How about it, friend?” Munro greeted him in English. “You ready to talk terms?”
“I’m ready,” he replied in the same language.
“Well, shit-oh-dear!” said Hays Jackson. “That belayin’ pin must’ve inspired him.”
“All right,”
said Munro. “Start by telling me what your chief knows.”
“My chief,” said Touch the Sky, “is Major Bruce Harding, Commanding Officer of the 7th Cavalry at Fort Bates.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had been about to hurl another insult in Cheyenne at the white dog. But he understood Touch the Sky’s unexpected announcement. The words struck him with the force of fists. Now the rebellious Cheyenne buck fell silent, waiting for more.
Munro’s face registered nothing at this. “What are you saying? Has your tribe signed a treaty with him? He’s your treaty chief?”
“No. I’m saying he’s my commanding officer. I was a forward observer with the Indian scouts assigned to his regiment. Now I’m on a longer mission to infiltrate the Cheyenne.”
Jackson suddenly slapped his meaty thigh in amazement. “Hell ’n’ furies! This is better ’n them shows where they got the two-headed cows! You believe the gall of this red devil, sayin’ he’s a soldier?”
Munro was careful here. The claim did seem preposterous. On the other hand, this buck’s English was spoken easily and with no accent. It was clearly the first language of his youth. And the War Department had indeed recently begun experimenting, infiltrating savage tribes with Indian spies loyal to the Stars and Stripes.
“If you’re a spy,” said Munro, “why did you speak up only after we hurt this brave?” He pointed at Little Horse.
“I’m not cooperating to protect the other two. I have nothing against them, they’re good fighters and I share their blood. If I can help them, I will. I kept my mouth shut because that was my orders from Major Harding. But now I want to save my own bacon if I can. When you ordered that knee smashed, I knew then for sure you weren’t just playing the larks.”
Munro nodded. He was far from convinced, but it was a good, sensible answer.
He didn’t know Major Harding personally, but he knew of him. Now Munro said, “What kind of man is your C.O.?”
Touch the Sky winced again at the tight-cutting pain of his rawhide bonds. He was aware that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was listening to every word.
“A rulebook commander,” said Touch the Sky, recalling what his friend Corey Robinson had told him. “A spit-and-polish man who can’t tell a Sioux from a Cheyenne. He lets his junior officers make his decisions for him.”
Munro said nothing. But this was exactly what he had heard about Harding.
“Who’s your immediate superior?” said Munro. “The one you report to?”
“Lieutenant Seth Carlson.”
In naming his enemy, Touch the Sky had taken a chance—Carlson had in fact been transferred far north of Ft. Bates as punishment for cooperating in Hiram Steele’s attempt to run John Hanchon out of the mustang business. But if Munro knew this, he showed no sign of it.
“So what exactly is your mission for the Army?” said Munro.
This was the easiest part of his ruse. Touch the Sky had grown up near a fort. Military formations, strategies, and thinking had been the stuff of everyday life.
“I communicate with forward observers by leaving messages in the forks of trees. I report anything that might be useful military intelligence. Exact numbers of braves, what kind of weapons and how many they’re armed with, plans for major movements or raids. The Army already knows where most of the tribes pitch their summer camps. But by summer the horses are strong from the new grass, and the braves can fight on horseback naming their own terms. The Army wants to learn where the secret winter camps are located. Then they can attack when the snow and ice have the valleys locked. The ponies and the braves are weakest in winter.”
“Hell, all that shines right to me,” said Jackson. “I think this buck is tellin’ the straight.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, ignored now, was ominously silent. He thought about everything he had just heard. What was Touch the Sky’s motivation for saying these things? Everything he had just confessed to was an accusation hurled at him by members of the tribe. Had he cleverly made up a confession based on false accusations? Yet hearing him matter-of-factly state the words just now gave them a certain, bothersome ring of truth.
Could he be a spy after all? And even if he wasn’t, could he not be claiming he was one to save himself from the fate awaiting the other two Cheyenne prisoners?
Munro too was wondering. This was a full-blooded Cheyenne. But if he was also an Army spy, he was a Cheyenne whose word would count for something with the military brass. True, he could prove true-blue soldier and ruin the wagon-road scheme—he certainly knew enough about it by now, if he chose to expose the plan.
But a man who had no qualms about selling out one race would just as quickly sell out another, if the price was right. And Munro could use such a man. His reports might be enough to bring in the soldiers against those tribes—like Bull Hump’s—that refused to cooperate.
But Munro, unlike Jackson, was not yet convinced of the tall buck’s story. Munro had survived on the frontier by taking nothing on faith and never trusting the next man. He left Touch the Sky and called Fargo Danford over.
“Where’s your men?”
“Waitin’ for me to meet ’em at Singing Woman Creek.”
“We’ll be there around nightfall,” said Munro, gauging the remaining sun. “Listen, that new man you just put on the payroll. . .”
“Meeks? Sam Meeks?”
“That one. Didn’t you say he was a snowbird? One who just deserted from the new regiment at Fort Bates?”
Danford nodded. “That new regiment formed special to hunt down Innuns. He slipped out after the first spring melt, said he was sick of eatin’ beans and singin’ ‘Boots and Saddles.’”
Munro smiled at this news, adjusting one of his cuffs. He was the only man on board whose shirt was not fouled by dirt or sweat or blood. But a hard life spent following no law but his own had lent him a spur-trigger uncertainty it was not wise to challenge. Everyone who met him sensed it.
“Good. Tell him to come aboard when we reach the Singing Woman.”
He returned to Touch the Sky’s side and knelt down. “If you’re telling the truth, we’ll soon know,” he told the Cheyenne prisoner. “And if you’re telling the truth, I’ll deal you in like a man and start by setting you free. The other two I can’t do anything about, you have to understand—it’s the same pressure a chief faces.
“Danford’s men got their blood up chasing you three, but the kill never came. They want blood now. An Indian scout I can save. Not them. I’m not a strong enough chief. They’ve been drinking, and with women scarce, they’re feeling mean and looking for a little fun. But you and I will talk some real terms, if your story proves out. You nail your colors to Wes Munro’s mast, you’ll come out of this a rich man.”
Munro’s eyes, two flat, hard chips of dark flint, held his.
“But if you’re lying, buying time at my expense, all three of you die right there where you lay. Danford’s men are upset. They’ve heard some story about Comanches dragging a white baby naked through cactus. Believe me, they plan on having some fun, and Cheyennes will do fine if Comanches aren’t available.”
Munro was watching him closely. Looking for the least sign, Touch the Sky knew, that all of this was a lie. That sign would also signal his death.
“That’s fine by me,” said Touch the Sky. “But these cords hurt like hell. You’re all armed—can’t you at least cut me loose while we’re waiting?”
One chance, Touch the Sky thought. One wild chance was all he asked. One lunge for the knife in Jackson’s sheath. Knobby was no doubt watching everything. The old mountain man would get off at least two good shots, buying some time to cut the other two free. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling could fight, at least try to escape. But Little Horse could not even move.
Still, he could hold a weapon! What was the alternative to such wild schemes? Only slow, sure, agonizing, and humiliating death. Better to die like Cheyennes, uttering war cries with their last living breath. One chance was all he asked.
Munro considere
d the request for some time, watching the Cheyenne’s face closely. Whatever he read there, his response showed that he did know Indians.
“No. We’ll wait until Sam has a good look at you.”
~*~
The green rawhide not only constricted around his limbs, it also drew tighter and tighter at the stakes until Touch the Sky was arched like a warrior’s bow, forced to bend his back to relieve the pressure.
This same pressure bent the others too, causing incredible contortions of pain to Little Horse’s ruined right knee. Now he had regained awareness and bore his pain in a numb silence.
Sunlight bled slowly from the sky, and the air took on the first evening chill. Touch the Sky knew, from the detail of voyageurs ordered to the poles, when they had reached the juncture with Singing Woman Creek. The sail had already been lowered. The first frogs of evening were beginning to sing when the Sioux Princess tacked close to shore and threw down her boarding plank.
Touch the Sky guessed, from the amount of whooping and cheering and shouting at the nearby camp, that the drinking had begun early. The planks trembled under him as more men in heavy boots boarded, clumping their way heavily toward the bound Cheyennes.
“That’s what I’m sayin’, Mr. Munro,” said the voice he guessed was Sam Meeks. “Fort Bates ain’t never used but Pawnees for scouts. And this Seth Carlson, he got orders out just after I joined up. He had a set-to with a big tall Cheyenne buck, and he lost.”
Moments later the harsh smell of liquor assaulted his nose. Daylight was fading fast now, and several coal-oil lamps were already lit. Somebody thrust one close to his face.
“And right there’s the buck who whipped him!” said Meeks triumphantly. “Spy? My sweet aunt! This here’s the slippery hoss that sent Carlson somersaultin’ ’cross the plains! Hell, half the 7th Regiment was poking steel after this one and his pard here with the swole-up knee. Can’t say I’ve ever seen the other one, though, and I’m one tends to mark down an Indian’s face for later.”
For a moment Munro looked as if he’d just swallowed something that didn’t agree with him. But it passed, and his face took on its usual calm wariness. He slipped one of the dueling pistols out of his sash and fired it into the air.
