by Judd Cole
“Woman Face is too far down to see them until it is too late for him. Now is the time for us to ride down the back of this hill and flee.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling considered this. He hated to come this far, wait this long, come this close, only to flee now. But if a grizzly made an area dangerous, Pawnee made it doubly so. Staying here much longer meant that he and Swift Canoe risked capture themselves.
“I have ears for your words,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.
His quick-darting, furtive eyes raced back and forth between the approaching Pawnee and the unsuspecting Cheyenne below. “Let us ride. A little smoke will not save Woman Face this time. Let the bloodthirsty Pawnee finish what Brother Bear has begun.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Pawnee, still unaware of the grizzly’s presence, silently formed a ring around Medicine Lake. Despite their proud boasts and their eagerness to seize this deadly enemy, they were warriors of the Kitkehahki branch of the Pawnee—raised near the river the whites called the Republican. They were highly disciplined fighters who valued obedience to their battle chiefs. They would wait for the signal from Red Plume before they showed themselves.
And that signal would not come yet, for Red Plume was curious.
He had already discussed this loner Cheyenne with Gun Powder, his best scout and most battle-tested brave. Gun Powder, like Red Plume and all true warriors, respected a worthy enemy. Both Pawnee agreed: This Cheyenne was on a special mission to invoke strong medicine. Strong medicine which might be turned against the Pawnee nations when they combined for the massive raid during the upcoming Cheyenne chief-renewal ceremony.
Better to find out, thought Red Plume now as he lay behind a thick oak, watching. The Cheyenne buck was clearly visible now. He was younger than Red Plume had expected—perhaps eighteen or nineteen winters behind him. He was tipi-pole thin with starvation and moved as if tired. But he was also tall, even for a Cheyenne, and his wide shoulders hinted at a sturdy frame when well fed.
Red Plume absently dug a louse out of the stiff grease in his topknot and cracked it between his strong white teeth. Of all the tribes he knew, the Cheyenne perhaps more than any other feared being separated from the rest of their tribe. So terrible was solitude to them that rarely would they banish even a murderer.
So whatever this one had been sent to do, it was important, thought Red Plume.
The Pawnee war chief frowned when he saw Iron Knife stick his head out too far from behind a dogwood tree. Disciplined or not, the proud warrior had been humiliated by his miss with the arrow. Now he ached to make amends by gutting this Pawnee-killer. But he would have to hurry to wrest that pleasure from the injured Short Buffalo, who had first claim to his blood.
Hold off, said the look Red Plume gave both impatient braves. Your time approaches. For now, just watch and learn.
~*~
His sister the sun was not yet far above the eastern horizon when Touch the Sky began constructing the willow-branch frame.
You must purify yourself in the sweat lodge before you leave and again when you arrive.
Arrow Keeper’s words returned in memory and guided Touch the Sky’s purpose. While he worked, one ear was cocked for warnings of the bear’s return. The Cheyenne knew he was still too weak to attempt the grueling ordeal of invoking a vision. This day he would sweat himself clean. Then he would paint his face, meditate, rest, and eat, regaining strength.
He bent the flexible willow branches into shape, lashed them together with buffalo-hair ropes. He returned to the cave and carried his now-tattered buffalo robe back. He draped it over the frame.
You will be on a sojourn to sacred Medicine Lake seeking a medicine dream of great consequence to the Cheyenne people.
Touch the Sky built a hot fire of aspen and oak inside the crude frame hut. One by one, he heaped rocks in a circle about the fire and let them heat for a long time. Only when they finally began to glow red did he strip out of his breechclout and leggings and moccasins.
He filled his buckskin legging sash with cold lake water, then returned to the sweat lodge. Before he lifted the hide and went inside, he paused to glance all around the lake.
He felt eyes watching him—unseen but close.
He glanced toward his pony, tethered nearby. She had calmed since the confrontation with the silvertip bear. But now she too watched the trees all around them, wary. Her ears flicked forward, listening.
You must experience the vision in all of its force at Medicine Lake. Only then can you resolve this terrible battle in your heart. Only then will you accept who you are and what must be done.
Touch the Sky went inside and dumped the cold water on the glowing rocks. At first the hissing steam nearly scalded him. But soon it cooled enough to comfortably breathe. He sat cross-legged in the swirling wisps of steam, feeling his pores expand and ooze cleansing sweat.
He sat for a long time, until his mind was empty of thoughts. Finally, as the rivulets of sweat began to cool against his skin, he left the sweat lodge.
He wiped down with clumps of willow leaves, followed this with a cooling plunge in the lake. Then he dressed again.
Near the water he dug red-bank clay out and put some on a piece of bark to dry a bit in the sun. He crushed ripe blackberries and mixed the juice with yarrow paste to make black dye. He mashed brown wild turnip roots with blades of lush green grass, grinding them together between rocks to produce a yellow paint.
Touch the Sky painted his forehead yellow, his nose red, his chin black—the Cheyenne battle colors. Warriors painted this way when making their sacrifice to the Medicine Arrows before battle. Touch the Sky would remain painted until he experienced the vision—assuming he was destined to receive it.
But Father, what if I fail in seeking this medicine dream?
You will either experience this medicine vision, young Cheyenne warrior, or I fear you will be killed in the attempt.
Touch the Sky finished painting and headed back toward the cave. Now he would eat some more venison, then inspect his pony’s hooves before he began the final rest and meditation for his vision quest.
Suddenly a hideous shrieking broke out all around him.
A moment later a circle of well-armed Pawnee braves was closing in on him, their eyes fierce with blood lust.
~*~
“Our young fox shook the hounds for many sleeps,” said a Pawnee with a huge red plume in his topknot. He advanced closer, speaking in the mixture of Lakota Sioux and Northern Cheyenne dialects he had learned from prisoners. “But now he has led the hounds to his very den!”
He said something rapidly in Pawnee to the others and the rest stopped. Only the brave in the red plume advanced closer toward Touch the Sky.
“I know your tribe well enough to know you are painted for an important ceremony, I speak one way and tell you honestly, I grew alarmed as I watched you. If I tolerated this thing much longer, would you succeed in bringing strong medicine down on Cheyenne enemies? For I believe as Gun Powder preaches: All red men worship one God by different names. Only, the Cheyenne chose to starve our women and children by hoarding the buffalo! For this we war, buck! Now you have blooded my warriors, and your blood is the price of their souls.”
“You drew first blood!” Touch the Sky retorted. “Have the Cheyenne sold themselves to the Blue-coats as scouts to hunt down red men? Have I starved a Pawnee woman or babe? Has this Cheyenne fired on your elders or ever raised his war lance against any Pawnee except in defense of his tribe?”
“He has indeed, Red Plume!” said one of the warriors who had joined Red Plumes band after the rock slide. “I fought in the raids one winter ago against Yellow Bear’s camp. This tall buck is the one who sent War Thunder over!”
The speaker realized he had spoken the name of a dead man and now made the cut-off sign, asking forgiveness of Tirawa, the Pawnee Father.
“Do you deny this thing?” Red Plume demanded.
Touch the Sky held his mouth in a straight, determined l
ine, showing nothing in his face. By now he had learned well the lesson of Old Knobby, the former mountain man who had befriended him in Bighorn Falls: If captured by Indians, never let them see your fear. Begging them for mercy only ensured a slow, agonizing death by torture.
“I deny nothing!” he said defiantly. “Once the war cry sounds, I am for greasing any enemy’s bones with my battle paint!”
These brave words earned looks of respect from several of the warriors, including Red Plume and Gun Powder.
“I have no ears for this,” said another brave. But Touch the Sky barely understood him—not only were the words unfamiliar, the Pawnee’s mouth was cruelly mangled. Then the Cheyenne saw the ragged holes in both cheeks and realized this was a victim of his powerful new bow and fire-hardened arrows.
“Look!” added the wounded Pawnee. “Even now his eyes search for boulders to bring down upon us! But a woman’s trickery will not save him this time.”
Touch the Sky’s mind worked furiously. Fighting them was out of the question, as was running. Nine of them circled him, one facing him no matter where he turned. For the present, it was necessary to gain more time to hatch a plan.
“Boulders!” he said loudly, mustering scorn. “For killing Pawnee? Give me a handful of pebbles!”
“Hold, Iron Knife, or forfeit your war bonnet!”
The leader with the brilliant red plume spoke just in time to prevent a warrior from sinking his knife to the hilt in Touch the Sky. It was a French dragoon’s bayonet with a deep blood gutter carved in its iron blade to facilitate rapid bleeding.
“Pebbles! For a buck who has barely left the dug, you talk the he-bear talk,” said Red Plume. “Are you like a cat who spits and makes a war face but does little else?”
Touch the Sky had to do something, and quickly. The others were impatient to gain vengeance for their fallen comrades. They were clearly tiring of his blustering talk.
Invisible fingers tickled the left side of his face, and Touch the Sky realized the wind was shifting.
The wind ...
Where was the silvertip? It had disappeared behind that long ridge north of the lake. So far, they had all been downwind, assuming it was still north of the water. But now the wind blew straight out of the south. It would carry the human smell along with the smell of their horses, hobbled below.
Despite their precise star charts and their scorn of red men who feared the dark, the Pawnee were vastly superstitious. Touch the Sky’s friend Corey Robinson had once saved Yellow Bear’s tribe merely by posing as a madman—Pawnee warriors considered insane whites to be the strongest bad medicine in their world.
This was his only chance, Touch the Sky decided. A slim chance was better than a sure death.
“I know nothing of spitting cats!” he said in a brazen, challenging tone. “My name is Bear Caller. I have been sent here by my tribe’s shaman because my magic is strong medicine.”
“Your magic! Do you carry the famous Cheyenne bloodstone which makes your prints invisible to an enemy?”
The scorn in Red Plume’s tone made several other warriors laugh.
“Not this,” said one of them. “This buck knows the secret words which turn horse droppings into pemmican!”
Even Short Buffalo and Iron Knife, impatient to gut this dog, laughed at this.
The wind still blew from the south. Hurry, Brother Bear, thought Touch the Sky.
“I told you, I am Bear Caller. My people call me this because I am of the Bear Clan and the bear is my brother. I can summon the ferocious grizzly to kill my enemies!”
“And I am called Bird Follower because I can fly across the sky!” said Iron Knife. “You are like the whites, speaking many bold words which mean little.”
“Summon this ferocious grizzly,” said Red Plume. “Show us this strong medicine.”
The wind was a steady, stiff breeze now. But had the bear moved on? thought Touch the Sky desperately.
The Pawnee mocked him mercilessly when Touch the Sky loosed an imitation of the grizzly’s hungry woofing sound. He repeated it several times, a barking cough from deep in his chest.
“Oooff!” said one of the warriors, imitating their prisoner. “Oooff, ooff-ooff!”
The rest laughed so hard that one or two of them fell upon the ground.
“See how the silvertip rushes to aid his brother,” said Red Plume. “Your medicine is indeed powerful.”
More laughter. But at that moment the enraged bear hiding in the woods whiffed the overwhelming smell of humans and horses violating his territory. The roaring bellow it unleashed reminded Touch the Sky of buffalo bulls locked in combat.
Tree limbs crashed, there were more bellows. As one, the nine Pawnee turned to stare toward the ridge.
The monster that suddenly appeared on top of the ridge stretched out to his full height on his hind legs. He bellowed his rage, then started lumbering clumsily but with impressive speed toward the group of intruders.
Had they acted in concert, the Pawnee could have brought the grizzly down with their arrows and lances. But the one thing which could quickly destroy their battlefield discipline was strong magic. And this Cheyenne had just summoned a silvertip to his aid, right before their eyes! His magic was indeed strong—the strongest they had ever seen.
The Pawnee panicked and fled downhill toward their horses. This headlong flight distracted the bear. Touch the Sky raced toward his own pony, now rearing against her tether as the grizzly drew nearer.
Touch the Sky untied the rawhide tether and leaped onto the gray, speaking soothing words to fight her panic. Then, as the angry bear routed his enemies, he rode into the dense cover of trees.
Chapter Fourteen
Honey Eater sat just outside the entrance flap of Black Elk’s tipi, watching the unmarried girls crossing camp toward their sewing lodge.
How much like fresh flowers some of them looked! And though she was as young as many of them, how much older and wearier Honey Eater felt when she watched them skipping and laughing. The tribe prepared them, almost from birth, for the great rite of passage to womanhood: marriage. And yet, who spoke of this misery and heartache she felt now?
Some of them waved to her, and the young beauty waved back, putting on the gay face that was expected of a great chief’s daughter. She missed her friends from the other clans. They would spend much of their morning learning the domestic arts of the tribe from the older squaws. Much gossip and teasing would take place as the girls learned such skills as the highly prized art of Cheyenne beadwork. It was considered the finest on the plains, and the Cheyenne women jealously guarded their secrets.
Honey Eater was finishing an elk hide on pumice stone, softening it for the awl and thread. Inside, Black Elk still slept. He had been up most of the night with the rowdiest warriors, gambling and betting on pony races. He had been cold and remote with her ever since Touch the Sky had been sent on his mission by Arrow Keeper.
Touch the Sky ... where was he?
Again she let the elkskin fall around her lap as her thoughts wandered. She had tried to be a good Cheyenne wife, to keep her mind free of thoughts for any brave except Black Elk. But she was a simple creature with only one heart—and her one heart was filled with love for the tall youth who had sworn his love for her aloud even as white devils tortured him.
Was he even alive? Why did he have to return from Bighorn Falls after she had given up all hope? After River of Winds made his report about Touch the Sky and the golden-haired girl he held in his blanket, she had tried to turn her heart to stone toward him.
But always, at the back of every dream, she heard his voice from that night when he was sure he was about to die: “Do you know that I have placed a stone in front of my tipi?” he had called out to her. “When that stone melts, so too will my love for you!”
The stone was still there—still unmelted. She checked every day.
It was her father’s death, thought Honey Eater, unconsciously making the cut-off sign. His passing and
tribal law had left her no choice. She had only accepted Black Elk’s gift of horses after Arrow Keeper reminded her. Her duty was to the tribe, and the tribe expected a chief’s daughter to many Black Elk.
The hide flap over the tipi entrance was lifted aside and Black Elk stepped outside. He was naked save for his clout. He glanced down at the unfinished hide and frowned.
“Have you made this the work of your old age, woman? I need new moccasins. Do you expect a war chief to go about looking as if he has neither meat nor racks to store it?”
“I am sorry,” she said guiltily.
She stretched the elkskin tight in her fingers and began scraping it over the rough stone. Secretly, though, she was weary of this constant boasting about war. All it ever brought was pain and loss and terrible suffering. Could men find nothing else to worship?
“You dream far too much,” said Black Elk. “Your thoughts are seldom on your work and your duties as a wife.”
These words hung in the air between them like harsh smoke, accusing her. He had not mentioned Touch the Sky by name, but they both knew what he hinted at.
“My duties?”
She tried to keep her voice submissive as she pointed to the tripod where his elk steak waited for him, dripping succulent kidney fat. “There waits your breakfast. I have made your tea just as you like it. I have also made you new clothing for the chief-renewal. Your war bonnet is the finest in the Cheyenne nation, your horse blanket embroidered like no other. I cook your meals, rub your aching muscles, sew your new moccasins. How, then, have I neglected my duties?”
Black Elk scowled, looking fierce. His severed, dead flap of ear looked like wrinkled leather. “Do not take this tone with me! I am your husband and your war chief! If you have done your duty, then tell me you have my son in your womb.”
Honey Eater averted her eyes. “I cannot catch a baby as if it were a toy thrown to me.”
“No. But a cow must rut before she can become heavy with calf. You have no desire to lie with your own husband. I have felt how you pull back from my embrace. Is this what you call doing your duty?”
