Vision Quest

by Judd Cole

  He walked back to his clothing. Then, as he reached down for his clout, he froze.

  Nestled atop his leggings was the object of his second vision during the journey here, the symbol of courage and fighting spirit in battle: an eagle-tail feather. He touched it—it was still warm from the eagle’s body heat.

  Only now, as the numbness in his body finally wore off, did the full significance of his medicine dream sink through to Touch the Sky.

  There was no longer any question of it. Arrow Keeper was right. The hand of the Great Spirit was indeed involved in this thing. He could not be sure of the meaning of everything he saw. Image had piled upon image, sound blended with sound, and the events of many years seemed telescoped into the intensity of a moment.

  But Arrow Keeper was right. His arrival at Yellow Bears tribe was not some random happening. That birthmark hidden behind his hair—it was not some random marking. Touch the Sky could not be sure of his part, but Fate had already written a role for him. A great role, but one with many great responsibilities and hardships.

  Touch the Sky understood and accepted all this. Just as, once and for all, he accepted his destiny as a Cheyenne. Holding the feather in one hand, he vowed to return and face his tribe again no matter what.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It is as I feared,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “The lice-eaters were not content with killing Woman Face. They followed our sign, and now the fight comes to us.”

  The sun glowed straight overhead out of a cloudless sky. But even squinting, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling could see the group of riders approaching straight toward them. They had stopped, one of them dismounting and kneeling to the ground—clearly he was reading sign.

  The Cheyenne’s horse was picketed below in the creek bed. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had used then-two buffalo robes and a few arrow shafts to rig a small shelter from the sun. Swift Canoe lay inside it now, sweltering in the breezeless heat.

  “Brother, my arm is useless,” Swift Canoe called up to him, “or I would join you. You can kill me now and ride hard and perhaps outrun them.”

  In fact Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had already considered this plan. But it was too late now. The night before he had dug for a long time in the creek bed, finally discovering a thin layer of alkali-tasting water. If he rode out now, in this unfamiliar country, when would he next reach water?

  Besides—these were Indian ponies, not the lazy plugs ridden by whites. He would never stand a chance of outrunning the Pawnee.

  No, he was safest right here. Let his enemy come at him. They had no shelter for a hidden attack. He would pick them off like prairie chickens, well protected in his natural breastwork of the creek bed. His pony was safe below.

  Again he carefully inspected his bullets and primer caps in the soft kid pouch at his elbow. A grain of sand could clog up the Colt’s firing mechanism.

  “I have no ears for this talk of killing each other,” he said to Swift Canoe. “I plan to grease Pawnee bones with war paint! One bullet, one enemy.”

  “This is the he-bear talk!” said Swift Canoe. “We are the fighting Cheyenne!”

  “If the fight goes bad and they send me under,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, “remember that you have your knife and one good arm—sing the Death Song and fall on your own blade. You do not want to be captured by lice-eaters.”

  But his warning was unnecessary. Swift Canoe, like all Cheyenne warriors, lived in dread of Pawnee torture. His knife was already in his hand.

  By now the riders were almost in long-arm range. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling inserted a primer cap into the loading gate of the Colt. He had no intention of waiting until the Pawnee were close enough to discover them. His hope was to keep them back out of rifle range.

  And to pray to Maiyun for a full moon and a starlit night. The Pawnee were in their element after dark.

  He sighted on one of the riders, ignoring the smaller target presented by the brave and aiming instead for the middle of his pony’s chest. He inserted his finger inside the trigger guard and slowly took up the slack.

  ~*~

  Red Plume signaled a halt while Gun Powder dismounted and examined the ground for signs.

  “The white men quit chasing them some time back,” reported the Pawnee scout. “They slowed their mounts—the tracks are closer together and not so deep. Now they are riding easy.”

  Red Plume nodded. “Then we should catch them soon. This is not Indian territory and they will be lost. Be they Sioux or Cheyenne, this time we take prisoners. By now the Cheyenne tribe has decided on a time and place for their chief-renewal. A Sioux will know this thing as well as his cousin the Cheyenne.”

  “The riders are Cheyenne or Sioux,” agreed Gun Powder. “Crow ponies have a cleft hoof. The Arapaho and Shoshone have both traveled toward the Land of the Grandmother to the north, following the buffalo herds. We are too far south for these to be the prints of Mandan or Hidatsa.”

  “And you are sure the trail started at Medicine Lake?”

  Gun Powder nodded. “Near the same time as we arrived. The dirt is still not crusted in the tracks.”

  “This means they played the rabbit when they spotted us. I suspect these two are word-bringers. No doubt they had a message for the bear-calling shaman.”

  Red Plume had lost enough face when the Cheyenne youth with the powerful medicine had sent him scrambling with the rest of his braves, fleeing like children afraid of the Wendigo. Now they had exhausted one full sleep in an impromptu council, debating whether or not to follow this trail. This time it would be different. This time the men of men would demonstrate why they were the most feared warriors in all the Plains Indian country.

  Before he could give the order to ride, however, Short Buffalo spoke up. Though his words were still muffled and indistinct because of the wounds to his mouth, this time no one laughed. His words were too serious.

  “Brothers! Hear me! You know me. We have hunted and traveled the war path together, and visited as friends in our clan lodges. You know my clan, and you know my society!”

  Absolute silence followed this. Every brave present knew that Short Buffalo was a member of the Death Arrow Society, a Pawnee military society which attracted only the most courageous—but also only the most reckless—of warriors. Each member of the Death Arrows carried a black-painted arrow always in his quiver. That arrow could never be drawn save on one condition: that it must draw blood. If the brave failed to kill his enemy with it, then he was required by the society’s law to kill himself in expiation.

  Every buck present, including Red Plume, knew the significance of his action when Short Buffalo now slid the black arrow from his quiver. By that action he had pledged his life for the rare honor of overriding normal tribal law or even the commands of his war leader. Red Plume was bound by the manly heroism of such an act: Short Buffalo had sworn to kill, and he would be allowed to do so on his own terms. Failing this, he must die.

  Every brave present was inspired by Short Buffalo’s act.

  “Mount!” Red Plume commanded Gun Powder. “Now we teach our ponies about hard riding!”

  He sounded the shrill Pawnee war yip, and the rest of the braves repeated it. They dug heels and knees into their ponies, urging them to a hard run. Their greased topknots gleamed in the stark sunlight, and several had streaked their nearly naked bodies with vermillion dye.

  Short Buffalo raced out ahead of them, his war lance held high. No one heard a shot nor detected a puff of muzzle smoke. But a moment later, a piebald pony next to Short Buffalo collapsed as if its bones had turned to water.

  ~*~

  Touch the Sky had made good time during the first morning after he left Medicine Lake, bearing due west toward the Cheyenne camp at the fork where the Powder River joined the Little Powder. But a Bluecoat cavalry patrol ambushed him near Beaver Creek and flushed him far into the even more desolate terrain of the southern country.

  The solders gave up past midday. His horse was well rested and fed, and Touch the
Sky had filled his sash with fruits and nuts to supplement the rest of his venison. This delay in unfamiliar country seemed a trifling thing now after all he had endured.

  Then, toward sundown, he heard the first shots.

  They came at regular intervals, as if one person were firing and reloading, firing and reloading, using cool battlefield discipline. A long pause, the thunder of hooves, another interval of regularly spaced shots.

  A series of red dirt ravines pockmarked the area. Touch the Sky was able to stick mostly to the cover of these as he slipped closer. Finally he emerged from one and cautiously peered out from behind a long, low, grass-covered hummock.

  The sight sent blood throbbing into his face. It was the same group of Pawnee who had planned to kill him back at Medicine Lake!

  From his present location, Touch the Sky could not see whoever it was they were engaging in a harassment attack. Two ponies lay dead on the ground, a third kicked in death agonies. One Pawnee lay still, apparently dead, another bled from a wound in his arm. They were grouped behind the war leader called Red Plume. Evidently they had retreated to a spot just out of the defender s effective range.

  Even as Touch the Sky watched, a brave dug heels into his pony and rode out from the group. He raced in a zigzagging pattern toward what Touch the Sky now recognized as a creek, the lip of its bank barely visible from where he watched.

  The rifle spoke its piece, the Pawnee charged on, still swerving and doubling back across his own path on his surefooted pony.

  Another shot, another miss. The pony raced closer.

  A third shot, and the pony was down. Almost without missing a beat, the agile rider raced on foot back toward his companions. A final shot kicked up a yellow plume of dust at his retreating heels.

  Touch the Sky wondered who was under siege. It sounded like a lone fighter, unless his companions had been killed or injured. No white settlers or Bluecoats would travel alone out here. It was almost surely a red man. With the exception of the Ute tribe, any enemy of the Pawnee was a friend of the Cheyenne. And Touch the Sky knew no mountain-dwelling Ute would be in this area.

  He studied the lay of the land and tried to guess in what direction that creek might twist and wind. Then, sticking to the jagged ravines and hiding behind hummocks, he went in search of it.

  He found it without much trouble while the sun still gave light. Touch the Sky hobbled his pony and proceeded along the dried, baked-clay bed cautiously. He heard several more shots, the sound drawing near as he advanced.

  His heart raced faster as he approached a sharp bend, close now to the sounds of rifle shots. He rounded it slowly, hugging the steep bank and staying in its apron of shade.

  For a moment his head denied his eyes when he recognized Wolf Who Hunts Smiling dug in at the top of the bank. He was sighting out toward the Pawnee with the Colt that had once belonged to Touch the Sky. Below, his anxious face protruding from a crude hide shelter-half, was Swift Canoe.

  Swift Canoe clutched his bone-handle knife in his hand.

  “Brother!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling called down to him. “I fear it will soon go badly for us. I think the lice-eaters are finally tired of being picked off like nits from a buffalo! They are massing for the charge! Let them come, I am for them! But only this, brother: If they should hit me and only wound me, do not fall on your knife until you have made sure I am gone over. Do not leave me for them to take alive.”

  “I swear this thing, Cheyenne warrior,” Swift Canoe promised.

  Touch the Sky did not stop to wonder why the two Cheyenne were marooned this far from the Powder River camp. Nor why their path had crossed that of the same Pawnee with whom he’d tangled. Their courage, in the face of such a dire threat, impressed him.

  He hated both of them. And both had tried to kill him. But they were behaving like true warriors now, and were they not Cheyenne? His battle with them was a battle within the tribe—this was an enemy from without, one who attacked in darkness and killed women and children while they slept in their robes.

  He could not just let them die. Nor would it save any of them if he joined the fight beside Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. There were still a half-dozen good braves thirsty for blood. This was not a time for fighting.

  Touch the Sky climbed to the top of the bank and carefully peered out, getting his bearing. Then he dropped back down and followed his back-trail, heading toward a nearby ravine.

  ~*~

  “It is settled,” said Red Plume. “Short Buffalo has spoken and I have spoken. He will ride in alone. We follow. He draws first blood or dies. But we have waited long enough. I care not if Mother Night would protect us, I am for blood now! We attack now, as one!”

  Short Buffalo was tired of words. His horse leaped out from the others and raced toward the creek. It was a roan mare, trained to turn buffalo herds and nimble on its feet. Short Buffalo borrowed a trick from the Cheyenne and rode low hugging his pony’s neck to make a small target.

  The agile pony leaped over one dead horse, another, swerved right, left, swept past the dead Pawnee. One shot missed. A second dropped the roan and its rider when they were less than a stone’s throw away from the creek.

  Unlike his comrades, Short Buffalo did not retreat out of range. He sounded the war yip and raced into the teeth of his enemy.

  Desperate but moving with calm competence, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling loaded one of his last bullets and primer caps. He waited until the enraged Pawnee was blocking the sun, then squeezed the trigger.

  There was a brief sizzling sound when the primer cap misfired.

  “Sing the Death Song!” shouted Wolf Who Hunts Smiling to Swift Canoe even as he frantically clawed his own knife out of its sheath.

  Short Buffalo leaped, thrusting his stone-tipped lance at Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. The small but quick and strong Cheyenne lunged to one side and avoided the lance. At the same moment, he brought his knife up to meet Short Buffalo.

  The Pawnee impaled himself and tumbled into the creek, his war cry transformed into a death shriek. But the impact had knocked Wolf Who Hunts Smiling down too. And above, he and Swift Canoe could hear the rest of the attackers thundering closer.

  Deciding it was better to die above fighting, instead of trapped down there like a cowering child, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling climbed back over the bank.

  Just as he emerged, a furious bellow from his right drew everyone’s attention.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling s jaw dropped open in astonishment when Touch the Sky—not even armed—emerged from a ravine and ran straight at the Pawnee. The ridiculous fool was woofing and growling like a silvertip bear, as if that should somehow frighten blood-lusting Pawnee warriors! Had he gone Wendigo?

  But his astonishment turned to pure shock moments later, when the Pawnee showed the white feather and tore off across the plains!

  Red Plume knew the Pawnee nations were in trouble now. See how this mysterious, bear-summoning Cheyenne shaman arrived out of thin air to protect his own? Until they knew more about him and his powerful medicine, Red Plume knew he must recommend to the council that all plans for attacking the Cheyenne chief-renewal be canceled.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Pawnee were soon mere dust devils on the horizon. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling stared at his tribal enemy as he crossed closer toward the creek.

  A sudden thought weakened his knees: Where was Woman Face’s horse, his weapons? How could he simply have appeared out of the earth like a thing of smoke?

  How, wondered Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, unless this was not Touch the Sky but his ghost?

  All in an instant, it made horrible but logical sense. The Pawnee had tortured and killed him! Why else would they have fled, the very first moment they spotted him, like dogs with their tails on fire?

  It also made gruesome sense that Touch the Sky’s ghost would now imitate the silvertip. Was this not the animal his Cheyenne enemies lured to kill him? To Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, as to most Indians, ghosts who return to the body-world are revenants—spi
rits bent on revenge.

  Thinking these things, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling forgot his recent stern lecture to Swift Canoe about courage under pressure. He also violated the manly code of his Panther Clan: Fear turned his face white, his eyes huge. His lips trembled as if he had suddenly been thrown naked into a snowbank. Clearly, he wore his terror in his face.

  “Leave this place!” he said in his bewilderment.

  He made the cut-off sign even though he knew such mild white magic was useless against a spirit manifestation.

  Touch the Sky, now totally bewildered himself, stopped. He stood perhaps 20 paces back from the bank of the dried-up creek. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had hollowed out a crude rifle pit. Only the upper part of his body was visible. Now and then a frustrated Swift Canoe called up to him, desperate to learn what was going on. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling ignored him, busy fending off complete panic.

  “I fought with you, I drew your blood,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “And true it is I walked between you and the fire. But I never crept up on you from behind like a cowardly Mandan or came for you in your sleep like the treacherous Comanche! When you were trapped in the whiskey traders’ camp, I fought like ten warriors to free you. True, I wanted to kill you. But in a fair fight, warrior to warrior!”

  This talk amazed Touch the Sky. He watched Wolf Who Hunts Smiling again make the cut-off sign. Clearly his enemy was convinced beyond all doubt he had returned from the Land of Ghosts. But why did he think this thing? What could have convinced him he had been killed?

  Then, a heartbeat later, he understood.

  He understood everything.

  Now it was clear to him what these two Cheyenne—his sworn enemies—were doing in this desolate no-man’s-land so far from camp. Now he understood why that grizzly had so suddenly shown up at an uninhabited cave. He also knew how that freshly blooded fawn had gotten there.

  It was bait planted by Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe. Bait intended to lure his executioner.