Vision Quest

by Judd Cole

  The next moment, his head slammed into a boulder and Touch the Sky’s world went black.

  ~*~

  As he lay, balanced on a narrow pinnacle between life and death, he experienced another strange medicine vision.

  He heard women’s voices singing. At first the words were not clear. Then, slowly, he became aware that the women were singing a Cheyenne battle song.

  Now the blackness gave way to flickering firelight, a huge fire like those used for clan gatherings. Now Touch the Sky saw a circle of women, Cheyenne women, young and old.

  Only, he couldn’t actually see them—not their faces. For while they sang, their voices raised in stirring harmony, they kept their faces hidden behind huge eagle-feather fans.

  That was the last thing Touch the Sky remembered: huge fans so like the eagle’s wings, flapping steadily, mysteriously, rhythmically.

  Chapter Ten

  His eyes eased open and then immediately closed to slits against the merciless sun.

  Touch the Sky felt a fierce, throbbing pain in his right temple. He raised his hand and felt the puffy bruise that had swollen his right eye nearly shut.

  He groaned as he sat up, pain coursing through him. He lay beside a huge boulder at the wide end of the coulee. The floodwater had receded, leaving the rocky floor of the coulee polished and clean.

  Suddenly he recalled everything that had happened. His heart leaping into his throat, he whistled for his pony.

  Obediently, she trotted out from behind a rock spur to his left. Mud coated her legs and belly, and a small cut marred the coat above her left foreleg. Otherwise, she had apparently weathered the flash flood well.

  Touch the Sky sat where he was, too weak and dispirited to move just yet. He was light-headed with hunger, and the gnawing complaint in his belly had become a steady, sharp pain.

  As he sat there, eyes focused dully ahead of him, he became aware of a huge shadow which steadily circled the place where he sat.

  Touch the Sky glanced up and saw, backlit against the sun, a magnificent eagle with a huge wingspan.

  Immediately his skin goose-pimpled as he recalled his medicine vision featuring Cheyenne maidens with their faces hidden behind eagle-feather fans. Surely this was just coincidence. But Touch the Sky rarely spotted eagles in the low country like this. They nested high up in the mountains, above the rimrock. Only when prey was scarce at the higher elevations would they scour the flats for food.

  Why was it circling this spot? Surely there was no game in the coulee, this close to a human. And eagles never attacked people except to defend their nests.

  It was odd. But the pain in his bruised head claimed his immediate attention. He rose, fighting a dizzy rush of nausea, and staggered to a nearby pool of rain water that hadn’t yet drained off. He soaked his new wound in the cold water, feeling almost instant relief.

  The arrow wound in his side was still stiff and sore, but the infection was gone now. Earlier Touch the Sky had pulled up some yarrow roots and pounded them into a paste, which he carried wrapped in cottonwood leaves. Now he rubbed the last of it on his wounded side.

  He glanced overhead when he had finished: The eagle still circled in the same spot.

  As if it were waiting for him to set out again? But that was foolish, he scolded himself.

  Foolish or not—when he set out on his pony, still bearing southeast, the eagle followed them.

  For most of that day, as Touch the Sky’s shadow lengthened in the sun, the eagle remained circling overhead. Now even the hunger and pain could not mute Touch the Sky’s growing excitement. This was not nature’s usual way: The hand of the Supernatural was in this thing.

  Even so, hunger threatened to soon do him in. He was so weak that it was an effort just to stay sitting on his horse. A stab of guilt lanced through him as he recalled older Cheyenne telling stories of the times, during the short white days of the cold moons, when the tribe had slaughtered their horses for meat. Even if he could bring himself to do so, what would he do afterward? How would he survive out here without a pony?

  Thus ruminating, he was slow to realize that for the first time the eagle had stopped following him. It had veered off to the right behind a slight spine of hills.

  Touch the Sky halted his pony, watching it.

  Had he been wrong, then? Was this after all just an oddity and not part of his vision?

  If so, why did the eagle now return and then once again fly back behind the spine—as if telling him to ride that way?

  Touch the Sky swerved to the right and circled around to the opposite side of the spine. As soon as he rounded the last hill, he spotted it: a wickiup, a style of hut used by various Southwest Indian tribes. It was an oval-shaped frame of branches covered with brush. They were temporary shelters, used by hunters and scouts. This far north, it could well have been built by scouts who were looking for wild horses, which were more scarce in the deserts and semiarid flats to the south.

  Clearly it was old and long deserted. Forced to summon strength to do so, Touch the Sky dismounted and walked closer to investigate. The wickiup was empty.

  The eagle circled patiently overhead.

  Puzzled, Touch the Sky looked up at the bird, then down again at the abandoned hut. If it had led him here, why?

  The eagle deviated from its pattern to swoop low over the top of a lone cottonwood behind the hut. Touch the Sky walked over to the tree and glanced up into the branches.

  He squinted. There appeared to be something hanging from a limb well past the fork in the trunk.

  Summoning strength he was sure he no longer possessed, he shinnied up the tree to investigate. He discovered a tough elkskin pouch which had been tied to the limb. When he opened it, he realized why: It was a generous cache of dried venison!

  Indians commonly cached food during good times, often for larger groups which planned to follow them or to ensure food for their return trip. Touch the Sky was far too grateful to spend much time wondering how the meat got there. First he gave thanks to Maiyun and the four directions. Then, even before he climbed down, he tore into one of the hunks of dried meat.

  Later, as he continued his journey while the eagle still followed overhead, Touch the Sky thought long and hard about the mulberry-colored birthmark hidden in his hair and Arrow Keeper’s epic vision.

  He thought too about the time when he and Little Horse had been riding back to the tribe after their fight against Hiram Steele and Seth Carlson in Bighorn Falls. Just as Touch the Sky had bent to pick up a scrap of ribbon Kristen Steele had dropped, an arrow had missed him by inches.

  Brother, Little Horse had said, his voice reverent with wonder, that arrow should have put you under. But you were not meant to die just then because the hand of the Supernatural is in this thing.

  Could it be? thought Touch the Sky. Could Arrow Keeper and Little Horse be right? It still seemed impossible that he had been selected to fulfill tribal destiny.

  But if he were not fate’s deputy, thought the young Cheyenne as he again glanced overhead at the eagle, what was the meaning of all this?

  ~*~

  “He was here, but not for long,” said the Pawnee brave named Gun Powder. “No fire was made, and there are no droppings. Also, he is starving—see here where he cracked old buffalo bones open to eat the marrow.”

  Gun Powder rose from his crouch. He pointed out across the plains to the southeast, behind the sod-house complex.

  “Once again, like a bird following the ancient migration route, he has gone in this direction. He is lost, but he knows where he wants to be.”

  “We will not let him escape us by starving,” said Red Plume with conviction. “That is too easy.”

  “He makes no attempt to cover his signs,” said Gun Powder. “He believes we have given up the chase.”

  Now the brave named Short Buffalo spoke, though with difficulty. His words were slurred, the result of his still-swollen tongue and ravaged mouth—the work of the Cheyenne arrow which pierced his ch
eeks. As he stared toward the fugitive’s escape route, his eyes were smoky with rage.

  “Red Plume spoke true words. We will not let him starve! Place my words close to your hearts, warriors. May I die of the yellow vomit if this Cheyenne dog eludes us again! Short Buffalo will use his guts for tipi ropes!”

  Only four from the original Pawnee band remained—Red Plume, Gun Powder, Iron Knife, and Short Buffalo. After the rockslide, they had used their mirrors and their lookouts to flash messages back to the main group, now waiting below the Niobrara River. Braves had been sent to collect the dead Scalp Cane and the wounded Roan Bear, whose crushed legs meant a travois had to be built. Short Buffalo, whose face and mouth had been nearly ruined by the arrow, insisted he was well enough after two sleeps’ rest to accompany them again. Another five braves had joined their original group.

  “If he is lost,” said Red Plume, “and wounded and starving, he is as good as gone under. Ride quickly! Pawnee blood has been shed by our enemy. If he dies before we kill him, we are shamed!”

  ~*~

  For the rest of that day the eagle flew slowly overhead, leading Touch the Sky across the vast, unfamiliar plains.

  He had finally begun to recognize familiar landmarks. Those three mountain peaks which rose from the horizon like a trio of lone sentries: They were called the Three Sisters. He recognized them from the days when Black Elk led him there for warrior training.

  When, near sunset, the eagle swung due east, Touch the Sky did not hesitate to follow. Exhausted, he made a simple cold camp beside an old buffalo wallow. He ate several strips of the nourishing dried venison. Then he rolled into his robe and slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The eagle was still there in the morning, circling, patiently waiting.

  Finally, when his shadow was long in front of him, Touch the Sky drew near to the eerie, darkly forested humps of the Black Hills. Night had already fallen, and the eagle was a mere shape against the blue-black sky when the young Cheyenne reached the shores of a remote, high-altitude lake.

  A three-quarter moon and a fiery explosion of stars made luminous silver light reflect off the water like pale mist. He could hear the eerie cry of loons out on the lake. Touch the Sky had been here only once before in his life. But he was sure this was sacred Medicine Lake—site of Arrow Keeper’s original vision, the same vision the younger Cheyenne had come to seek.

  When he thought to look again, the eagle was gone.

  Touch the Sky thanked Maiyun and the directions of the wind.

  Then he tethered his pony in a lush patch of graze, using a long strip of rawhide to give her enough play to reach the water. Tomorrow, he reminded himself with guilt, he would inspect each foot—hoof, pastern, and fetlock—carefully. The gray was limping steadily now. She needed rest, good forage. At least white men, he thought, could reward a good pony with a nosebag full of oats.

  For a moment, as he unleashed his belongings from the gray, she shied nervously. She had seemed skittish since arriving; once, as they neared the lake, she had hunkered on her hocks and refused to move. He had been forced to dismount and gently persuade her until she moved again.

  At first, bone weary himself, pain throbbing in his injured side and bruised head, he had assumed his pony was simply ill tempered from exhaustion and her limp. Now, though, as the cry of loons echoed behind him, he too sensed some dangerous presence in this seemingly pristine and uninhabited area.

  He scratched his pony’s withers until she had calmed again. But as he did so, he looked cautiously all around him, watching for firelight or movement. However, all appeared well.

  Now, as his uncle the moon crept toward his zenith, he searched for a safe campsite. Once again Fate seemed to treat him as a favorite child: After very little searching he found a small, dry, apparently long-deserted cave, judging from the unbroken brush crowding the entrance. It was located well back from the shoreline.

  He used his knife and a piece of flint to start a small fire just inside the cave’s entrance. This was not for cooking or warmth, but to explore the cave before he decided to stay there.

  Good—the flickering yellow-orange light revealed no recent prints inside the cave, animal or human. The cave had a fairly wide, high entrance.

  But it quickly narrowed at the back into a tiny, constricted space where he had to kneel.

  Convinced it was deserted, he gathered plenty of wood and kindling and brought it inside. The well-lit night sky, and an ample supply of dry aspen and birch limbs, simplified his task.

  He hauled his weapons and buffalo robe inside. Exhausted though he was, he was not yet ready to sleep. His quiver held an extra supply of arrow shafts he had cut from a dead pine. Now, in the wavering firelight, he carefully honed the shafts and hardened the points in the fire.

  Soon, the grueling ordeal of invoking the medicine dream must begin. The Pawnee were only at the back of his mind now. He was sure they had given up on tracking him—how much could one Cheyenne buck be worth to them?

  True, he reminded himself, he had shed Pawnee blood, and all Plains tribes placed a high value on vengeance. But if they had wanted him, surely they would have killed him long before this.

  Still, even as his eyelids finally grew heavy with sleep, a quick lance of foreboding stabbed through him. He suddenly had the feeling that human eyes were watching him from behind the dark cloak of the night.

  Once again he stepped outside, watching and listening to the night. But nothing seemed amiss.

  Chiding himself for a white-livered coward, he got a firm purchase on his courage. Then he stepped back into the cave.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Wake up,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “Today we kill our enemy!”

  Swift Canoe rolled out of his buffalo robe, instantly wide-awake despite the lopsided shape of his sleepy face. He remembered the night before, watching every move when Touch the Sky had arrived and made his camp.

  Most Indians were late sleepers. In order to rise with the sun, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had drunk much water the night before so his aching bladder would rouse him.

  “He should sleep long yet,” said Swift Canoe. “He was exhausted when he arrived. Did you see his ribs protrude?”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling nodded.

  “True, he is weak from hunger. But count little on this. Though I hate and despise him, I admit Woman Face is strong and capable. We must work quickly and be careful.”

  “I am more worried about Brother Bear than Woman Face,” said Swift Canoe. “We might easily lure him to us instead. Should we not after all do this thing ourselves?”

  “This is no time to show the brains of a rabbit,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling impatiently. “Recall, if our plan works, we do not sully the Sacred Arrows by drawing Cheyenne blood. Too, Arrow Keeper will surely send someone to find Woman Face. This way they will find mauled remains, and we will not be suspected. Not all in the tribe believed Black Elk’s story that we were sent out to scout Pawnee.”

  “I have ears for this. But if the plan does not work?”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s dark, furtive eyes met his friend’s. “If the plan does not work, we kill him ourselves.”

  They were camped high on a thickly wooded hillside behind Medicine Lake. The sun had not yet risen, and the early morning sky was still the color of flint. The sweet song of the larks greeted them as they set out toward a tall cedar located halfway between their camp and the shore of the lake.

  They had already selected this tree because, from its top branches, one could see the entire area all the way down to the plains. From this tree they had discovered the grizzly’s den and some of the creature’s favorite hunting routes.

  When they reached the tree, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling quickly climbed to the top. The sun was starting to rise from her birthplace, and far below on the flats he saw prairie falcons circling, hunting for squirrels.

  Closer at hand, all was quiet at the entrance to Touch the Sky’s cave. And further, past the far end of t
he lake, it was also quiet near the rocky entrance to the grizzly’s den.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was patient. All bears were early risers when not in hibernation. He watched every spot where he had seen the grizzly prowling, looking for movement, not shape.

  Finally he spotted it. The huge silvertip had torn open an anthill. He was letting the ants run up his paw before he licked them off. This way the bear avoided sand and stickers. Each time its tongue shot out, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling saw large, sharp canines.

  At first the Cheyenne’s heart sank. The wind was to the grizzly’s back, blowing away from the entrance to Touch the Sky’s cave.

  But then the grizzly began ambling toward the opposite shore of the lake, into the face of the wind.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling nimbly climbed back down to the ground.

  “Quickly!” he told Swift Canoe. “Now we follow our plan!”

  Two sleeps earlier they had located a deer run which led to the shore of the lake. Every morning whitetail deer came down to the water to drink. The two Cheyenne had already constructed a blind of dead brush and limbs.

  They slipped quietly up to their hiding place and peeked around it toward the lake. A doe and her fawn were drinking.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had recently made a strong new bow from oak. Now he pulled an arrow from his quiver and slid the string into the notch.

  The doe stepped a few paces into the clear water and her fawn followed. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling remembered Black Elk’s lesson: Always try to shoot game when it’s in the water. That way, if the first bullet or arrow doesn’t kill it, its escape will be slowed so the second shot can bring it down.

  But he needed no second shot. His first arrow pierced the fawn’s soft flank and struck warm vitals, dropping it in the water. The startled doe was gone in several quick bounds.

  Quickly the two Cheyenne hauled the fawn ashore. Swift Canoe unsheathed his bone-handle knife and opened the fawn up from throat to rump. Meantime, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling climbed the lookout tree again to make sure the grizzly was still downwind.