by Judith Pella
“You will smoke?” asked Broken Wing.
“Yes, I’d be honored.”
Broken Wing took down his pipe from where it hung on a lodge pole. He filled it with tobacco, lit it with a faggot from the fire, and sat down beside his guest. He lifted the pipe into the air toward the east from where the sun rises, then presented it to the four cardinal points: south, west, north, and east. This ritual completed, he took a long, deliberate puff from the pipe, finally handing it to his guest.
Killion took Broken Wing’s pipe with an air of reverence. He fully understood the significance of being invited to smoke in a Cheyenne lodge. It was an indication of peaceful intentions on the part of the host; it was also the way by which a bargain was sealed. But most important for Killion, smoking the pipe was considered a way by which the truth was discerned. No Cheyenne could lie to a man with whom he had smoked. It was yet to be seen if the same could be said of this white man.
When Killion brought the pipe to his lips, Deborah saw that he did not do so casually. He was aware of the profound meaning in the ritual, and there was no patronizing mockery in him as he puffed from the long stem. He gave the pipe back to his host and their eyes met for an instant and held in mutual scrutiny.
Apparently satisfied, or at least temporarily mollified, Broken Wing took the pipe and laid it aside.
“Why do you come to our village?” Broken Wing asked.
“I came with your friend, John Smith. He is my friend also, and I asked him if I could visit some of the camps and maybe do something about the whiskey peddlers.”
“You are with the government?”
“No, I’m just a preacher—”
“What is this preacher?”
“I am a minister of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“The white man’s God.”
Killion ran a thoughtful hand across his beard. “I guess that’s a matter for debate—to some folks, that is. I believe He is every man’s God; leastways, He died for all men, not just white folks.”
“Why did He do this? Was He a warrior in a great battle?”
“He is a very great warrior, and He was in a big battle with the devil … the prince of evil spirits.” Broken Wing nodded at this explanation, understanding all about evil spirits. Killion continued. “You see, the devil wanted everyone to burn in hell for their sins, which we all fully deserved. But Jesus wanted to save folks because He loved them. So, He decided to die in their—that is, in our place.”
“And He did this for the Tsistsistas, too?”
“Yes, Broken Wing, He did it for you, me, everyone.”
“Sometime you must tell me more about this, for it is hard to understand, but it is interesting. Now, I would like to know what you can do about the whiskey peddlers.”
“I figure if we can find out who exactly they are, we can run them out of the territory.”
This statement both surprised and worried Deborah because it sounded more like the claim of a lawman, not a preacher.
“You could do this?” asked Broken Wing.
“I reckon I could, but I have given up violence in the service of my Lord. However, I’ve sometimes been known to be pretty convincing without resorting to violence. I realize that the few braves that oppose the whiskey have their hands tied with mixed loyalties, so maybe a stranger can take a few more chances. I’m willing to give it a try, anyway. Those varmints are the lowest snakes around. They don’t care who gets hurt as long as they make some money, and I’m afraid their evil work is going to end up hurting a lot of innocent folks, Indian and white alike.”
“You are right, Killion. The whiskey among the Cheyenne is worse than any weapon. I will help you. But first I must know if you intend to bring trouble to my wife.”
“I have smoked with you, Broken Wing, and I swear by your sacred pipe, and by my own God, that I speak the truth with you when I say I do not mean any harm to your wife, nor—” and he glanced at Deborah as he added this, “—have I ever intentionally brought harm to her. I don’t have no desire to take her back to the whites if she is content and happy to be here.”
“Wind Rider,” said Broken Wing, “do you take this man’s word?”
Deborah glanced between the two men. They were so different from each other, but each wore such a similar demeanor of innate guilelessness that she knew she must believe Killion or never trust another man again. She nodded toward her husband.
“Good,” said Broken Wing, relieved, for he was beginning to like this white man. “Then bring us some food, wife; Killion and I will talk.”
Dusk had tinged the outside sky before the men finished with their talk. Deborah had busied herself with preparing a meal and tending the children, but she had listened attentively to the interchange between the men. In the time since she had married Broken Wing, she found that she never became angry at the subordinate position she, as a Cheyenne woman, was expected to take. Unlike Leonard Stoner, Broken Wing never demanded it of her. She submitted willingly to him out of respect for who he was and a growing trust that he had her best interests in mind. She was secure in his love, and when she did exercise her will, he received her with a mutual respect. Cheyenne and white women alike might be considered subordinate to men, though Deborah secretly doubted it, but a man did not have to crush and destroy to maintain his superior position. What Leonard Stoner could have learned from a savage Cheyenne brave!
Broken Wing and Killion smoked the pipe once more to seal their agreement to do something about the whiskey; then they both rose and left the lodge. Deborah watched them depart with a sense of both pride and concern. She was no longer worried about Killion’s honesty. If Broken Wing trusted him enough to ally himself to the white man, then Deborah had no more qualms about him either, for she trusted her husband’s judgment implicitly. What concerned her was that the whiskey peddlers were a rough and dangerous lot and would not take kindly to anyone trying to interfere with their brisk business.
41
Broken Wing knew of a secluded place downriver where he had once or twice seen Stands-in-the-River go, and where he assumed some of the trading for firewater occurred. He had never gone there himself, wanting no part of the whiskey trade. He had also feared that if he made too much of an issue of his objection, it might weaken his standing among the braves regarding decisions on other matters. However, whiskey was becoming too entangled in the life of the tribe for Broken Wing to ignore it any longer.
The arrival of Killion provided Broken Wing with the ideal opportunity to strike a blow against the evil that had invaded his tribe. Killion could make the actual confrontation while Broken Wing remained in the shadows as backup, should resistance be encountered. Thus, avoiding direct participation, he hoped further rifts within the tribe would also be avoided. This plan met with the approval of Killion, who didn’t seem to mind being at the forefront.
“If God is for me, then who can be against me!” Killion told his new Cheyenne friend. He was assured of the righteous calling of his task. When Broken Wing asked him where his weapons were, the preacher replied with a grin, “The weapons of our warfare are not carnal! But they are mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds!”
This was a concept beyond Broken Wing’s ken. He carried with him his bow and quiver strapped around his shoulder, and a rifle in his hand.
Killion didn’t protest the presence of the weapons, but he did insist most emphatically that bloodshed be avoided at all costs.
Thus, the two mismatched partners ventured into what they both were certain was the stronghold of Satan himself. They quietly crept up to the trader’s camp, nestled in a grove of cottonwoods. Though it was still early spring, the brush had grown out enough to provide sufficient cover under darkness, with only a quarter moon dimly illuminating the proceedings. In the center of a small clearing was an old covered wagon around which were milling three or four Indians and one white man.
“He’s pretty sure of himself to be out here all alone,” whispered Killion
to his companion.
“What does he have to fear?” replied Broken Wing bitterly. “He is friend to the Cheyenne.”
“Well, let’s see how friendly he is to me.”
“Wait for the Indians to go.”
Killion nodded. He wanted this to be as peaceable as possible, and it was a sure bet the Indians would not take kindly to his interference. He might be able to intimidate the trader, but he doubted even he could smooth-talk four Indians who were likely to be half drunk.
The Indians had laid several hides at the trader’s feet, and he was in the process of distributing two jugs of liquor to each. A couple of Indians immediately put a jug to their lips and took a swallow, grinning their approval. The deal was settled and the braves, who had by the look of their unsteady gait already sampled the trader’s wares, staggered away. The path of their exit took them within a yard of Killion and Broken Wing’s hiding place, and the two crouched low and held their breath for several tense moments until the voices of the retreating Indians faded into the distance.
The trader gathered up his booty, tossed the hides into the back of the wagon, then sat down before his campfire and poured himself a cup of coffee. As he leaned over the fire, the reflection of the flames illuminated the face of the trader.
“Well, I’ll be!” Killion murmured. “That’s Willie Burns.”
“You know him?”
“He used to rustle cattle down in Texas. Never could get the goods on him, but not for want of trying.”
“You arrest him now?”
“I don’t have any real authority to make arrests; but even if I tried, I think I’d get some resistance from his ‘customers.’ I probably wouldn’t be able to transport him unmolested even part of the way to the fort. Best if I can make him leave of his own accord.”
“How will you do that?”
“The old silver tongue.” Broken Wing took on a puzzled expression, then Killion added, “You just wait here and cover me in case he don’t get convinced. And pray if you’re of a mind—I figure your Great Spirit don’t want no whiskey peddlers here any more than the Lord God does.”
With that, Killion stood up and walked boldly into the trader’s camp. He was greeted with a suspicious scowl from Burns, who no doubt feared competitors more than the law.
“What do you want?” said Burns most inhospitably. He was a stout, grizzled man whose creased, unshaven visage had seen much action on the western plains.
“Smelled your coffee,” said Killion congenially. “I’d be mighty glad for a cup.”
“Ain’t givin’ away no handouts, and I don’t want no company, so you best be on your way.”
“You didn’t seem so unfriendly to them Indians—”
“What do you know about that?” Though he still did not stand, Burns drew up straight, his eyes suddenly sharp and narrow.
“Only that you should of stuck to cattle rustling,” said Killion.
“Who are you?” demanded Burns.
“Name’s Killion. We met a time or two in Texas—”
“The Ranger?” Burns immediately made a more careful examination of his unwanted visitor. “You ain’t even carryin’ a gun.”
“No. I don’t hold with gun-toting since I got religion.”
As Killion spoke, Burns moved his hand slowly to his right to where his rifle lay. Just as his fingers curled around the butt of the weapon, Killion’s foot shot forward, pinning the outlaw’s hand against the rifle. Killion bent over, pulled the rifle free, and tossed it into the bushes.
“Why you—” blustered Burns.
“I just want to have a peaceable conversation, that’s all,” Killion said. He didn’t remove his foot from the outlaw’s hand, however. “I’d like to suggest that you pack up your wagon and vacate these parts. Your kind ain’t needed around here. All you’re doing is bringing trouble, so I recommend—friendly like—that you get moving.”
As if to prove his sincerity, he lifted his foot, releasing the outlaw’s hand, now sore and red, but no worse for the experience. Killion stepped aside.
“Yeah, and how are you gonna make me?”
Killion had anticipated this question. “I’m hoping you’ll listen to reason. I could drag you up before the Cheyenne chiefs, who don’t want whiskey peddlers ‘round here any more than I do. But they might not be as friendly toward you as I’m being. And your loyal customers ain’t going to stand up for you over something like this—they’ll figure they can get their whiskey elsewhere. So, like I said, Burns, the chiefs ain’t going to take kindly to you, and that might be too messy for my peace-loving nature. I’d prefer you to just start walking and to keep on walking until you’re long gone out of Indian Territory. You’d prefer that, too, if you were partial to keeping your hair.”
Burns shifted nervously. “Well, I happen to be ready to go anyway,” he said contemptuously. “But I’ll be back.”
“I doubt that, Burns. I know who you are, and before the night is out so will the chiefs. Before the week is out, so will Wynkoop. You ain’t got a future here anymore.”
Burns chewed on his lip for a moment. He glanced longingly toward the bushes where his rifle lay somewhere out of reach. He seemed to consider his options, then shrugged. “Like I said, I was leavin’ anyway.” His tone was somewhat more contrite.
“Glad to hear that, Burns! I figured you were a reasonable man.”
“You still want that coffee?” Somehow the peddler’s voice still lacked hospitality.
“Thank you kindly, but I best be on my way; I don’t want to hold up your departure. Adios, Burns.”
“Yeah, same to you … amigo.”
The tone of Burns’ parting words was hardly friendly, and in his days as a Texas Ranger, Killion would never have turned his back to such a man. But as a preacher, he tried to live less by the hard mottos of the West and more by the basic Christian virtues. His back, as well as every part of his life, was in God’s hands. So, he turned and strode away.
And, as God had protected him so many times before during his travels around the West, He did so now, this time making use of the keen eye and quick reflexes of a Cheyenne warrior.
Broken Wing had quietly crept as close as possible to the trader’s campsite and had witnessed, with some awe, Killion’s bold confrontation with the outlaw. He saw Burns actually back down from the unarmed Killion. Then, most astonishing of all, Killion turned his back on the man and walked casually away!
When Burns reached his hand around to the back of his belt, Broken Wing needed no explanations of what the trader was up to. The Cheyenne instantly brought up his bow and set an arrow to the string, which he drew back and released just as Burns was aiming and about to discharge the small pistol he had hidden behind him.
The pistol fired almost simultaneously with the thud of Broken Wing’s arrow as it struck its mark.
Burns shrieked, grabbing his shoulder where the arrow had imbedded itself. The derringer flew from his useless hand, but not before a wild shot was fired. Killion spun around an instant later, grasping a bloody spot on his own arm. He saw the arrow in Burns’ shoulder; he saw Broken Wing step out into the open, and he knew the Indian had saved his life.
Broken Wing strode up to his victim and, with the intention of counting coup on him, raised his hand over the man. Burns yelled even more, covering his head with his hands. Broken Wing thumped Burns on the head and stepped back.
“Don’t worry, Burns,” said Killion, “I don’t figure he thinks your hair’s worth taking, no more’n he thinks your life is. If he thought it was, that arrow would have gone through your heart, not your shoulder.”
“And you call yourself a Christian!” spat Burns.
“If it weren’t for the love of Christ, Burns, you’d be dead now,” said Killion.
Then Killion, accompanied by more curses and yells from Burns, pulled the arrow out of the peddler’s shoulder. It had gone through only the fleshy part and had done little damage. Killion appreciated Broken Wing’s restra
int, for he knew that no Cheyenne warrior could have missed such a target unless it was his intent. Killion stuffed his handkerchief into the wound.
“You’ll live,” he said. “And I figure you can still drive a wagon.”
“You don’t expect me to—”
“I do,” cut in Killion. “And the quicker the better. Who knows? This here fella may have some more tee-totaling friends out in them bushes.”
“Why you—!”
“Don’t thank me, Burns. It’s my pleasure to do the bidding of the Lord.”
Broken Wing took the derringer and all other weapons belonging to the trader, including the rifle in the bushes. In the meantime, Killion doused the fire and loaded the camp equipment into the wagon. He was about to hoist Burns into the driver’s seat when Broken Wing held up his hand for Killion to wait.
Broken Wing jumped into the back of the wagon and began dumping out jugs and kegs of liquor. Burns protested noisily at the destruction of his merchandise.
Killion laughed. “I should have thought of that!”
Finally Broken Wing was satisfied that at least one enemy of his tribe was soundly defeated, and he leaped from the wagon. Killion hitched up the horses, prodded Burns into the wagon and gave the animals a firm slap to urge them into motion. And thus, none too graciously, the disgruntled whiskey peddler made his departure.
Broken Wing and Killion watched the wagon until it disappeared into the darkness.
“Well, that was a night’s work,” said Killion, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
“It is but one peddler,” said Broken Wing; “there will be others.”
“That may be, but they’ll think twice before coming, and that’s something.”
“I hope so. Now you must come to my lodge, and my wife will fix your wound.”
“It ain’t much, but I’d be glad to join you anyway.” Killion stopped suddenly and faced the Indian squarely with a solemn expression. “You saved my life back there, Broken Wing, and I won’t soon forget it. I am in your debt.”
“There are no debts among friends,” said Broken Wing.
