by Judith Pella
“Maybe so, but if I can ever do anything for you, I will!”
“Come. There are no needs now but to celebrate our victory.”
Broken Wing gathered up his booty—two rifles, a pistol, and the derringer—and the two comrades set off for the village.
Deborah greeted them with relief followed by pride. She gladly tended Killion’s wound, then prepared for them a meal of their best provisions. Black Kettle, having heard of their heroic exploit, came to offer his appreciation, and before long the lodge was filled with other chiefs and braves who hated the whiskey trade. The pipe was passed, songs were sung, and stories were exchanged until the early hours of the morning.
Deborah watched the proceedings with wonder. A few hours ago she had distrusted Killion almost to the point of hatred; now he was suddenly a hero of the tribe, and she could not believe that she had been such a poor judge of character. She was still a bit put off by his preaching, which he lost no opportunity to do during the evening. But his Cheyenne listeners heard with great interest his story of the Son of the Wise One Above who had sacrificed His life for all men to redeem them from the consequences of their evil ways. Broken Wing interpreted Killion’s words to the others with almost as much zeal as the preacher himself. When Black Kettle invited him back to tell more about this wondrous warrior called Jesus, Deborah began to wonder if she had been too hard on the preacher.
Broken Wing had no doubts at all about this white man, who was steady and courageous in battle and merciful to his enemies. Between Broken Wing and Killion, Deborah could not tell who was singing whose praises more. Each man had gained a deep admiration for the other.
When Killion left in the morning, Deborah was able to apologize for her harsh misconception of him. Killion just shrugged good-naturedly. “Don’t think nothing of it, ma’am. You had good reason. And I ain’t forgetting what you did for me back at Griff’s camp, nor what Broken Wing did for me. If you ever need anything, I’ll do for you if it’s within my power to do it. And, you may or may not like it, but I’ll be keeping you in my prayers, too.”
Deborah smiled and said, coyly, “I guess I will just have to live with that, Mr. Killion.”
42
Unable or unwilling to follow the path of brotherhood Broken Wing and Killion had begun, the majority of whites and Indians stumbled upon a deteriorating and rocky trail.
In April the shipment of annuity goods promised in the treaty finally arrived. But Deborah wasn’t surprised by the disenchanted Cheyennes’ reception of the delivery.
As the women gathered at the riverbank to do laundry, Stone Teeth Woman scoffed, “Who needs their paltry goods now that winter is over and the worst days of starvation have passed?”
Deborah had never sensed that anyone in the camp had come all that close to starvation, especially Stone Teeth, whose husband was a successful hunter. But she understood her sister-in-law’s sentiment and knew many others shared it.
“My husband is furious that no guns or ammunition came with the shipment,” put in Yellow Beads Woman.
“Again we have been cheated by the white man,” said Buffalo Calf, who had ended her mourning and rejoined the village, but who carried with her a bitter hatred for the whites. She cast a suspicious scowl at Deborah.
But Deborah pretended not to notice, focusing all her attention upon her wash. Most of the time, even during the most heated debates, no one seemed to regard her white skin. Deborah was accepted as Cheyenne; she could forgive Buffalo Calf, who was still grieving the loss of her husband.
Deborah had a harder time forgiving the United States government. Because the whites had so limited the Indians’ hunting grounds, they needed—more than ever—means to hunt more efficiently. Guns were becoming necessary for their survival—for food and shelter, not war.
Thus, the Indians began to range more and more north of the Arkansas; and the whites, unaware of Senator Henderson’s verbal agreement with the Cheyenne, became alarmed.
Several hostile incidents were reported, though where truth ended and exaggeration began Deborah could not judge. A man was killed and scalped near Fort Wallace, a wagon train was attacked, and there was even a report that William F. Cody had been chased by a Sioux war party. The settlers responded strongly to these reports, well out of proportion to the severity of the incidents, and Washington heeded the outcry. The Cheyenne and Arapahoe were flatly refused any shipment of weapons, and when the next load of annuities arrived devoid of guns, the Cheyenne, specifically the Dog Soldiers, refused the goods. The chiefs tried to be more reasonable, promising they would never use the weapons against whites. Wynkoop pleaded with the government to release the guns, convinced this would be the only way to insure a peaceful year.
Unfortunately, the government ignored the situation too long. In August, even while Wynkoop was pleading for the Cheyenne, a war party, primarily of Cheyenne and some Arapahoe and Sioux, began to vent their anger and frustration upon the settlers along the Saline and Solomon rivers. The Indians claimed they had been fired upon first—not entirely unlikely, considering the near-panic among many of the settlers. But what followed had the effect of destroying any credibility Black Kettle had worked so hard to achieve for his people.
Not less than a dozen whites were killed in these attacks, including women. Several women were raped, and an infant was reported murdered. At least one woman and two children were taken captive; though, while the war party was being pursued by a troop of cavalry, the children were released so the party could move faster. Reports varied depending upon the purveyor of the information, but even the Cheyenne chiefs agreed it was a wanton and unprovoked attack. Chief Little Rock of the Cheyenne was willing to deliver up to Wynkoop the leaders of the war party, but it was growing more and more obvious that the peace-chiefs were losing control of their fiery young warriors. In the end, the more peaceable chiefs like Little Rock and Black Kettle decided to take their bands and flee back to the sanctuary of Indian Territory, where they hoped to avoid the inevitable war.
Broken Wing followed Black Kettle with his family. He was sick about the Saline and Solomon raids and had little qualms about not associating with such braves as were responsible. Yet his heart remained divided because he was certain Stands-in-the-River had been part of that war party. Stands-in-the-River had in fact been there, but he had been among those who had tried to prevent the outrages. Thus, he, too, resolved to move with his family and his band to safety.
Once the camp was settled on the Cimarron River and the winter meat supply gathered, Stands-in-the-River became restive once more. He and two or three other braves got drunk one night on some stolen whiskey and talked each other into rejoining the Dog Soldiers, who had continued to range in the regions north of the Arkansas.
The drunken group left camp secretly in the middle of the night. Stone Teeth Woman wanted to believe her husband had gone hunting; and, fearing the bluecoats would try to capture him, she kept her true fears to herself for three days. Then, overwrought with anxiety, she finally went to Broken Wing.
“You must find him and bring him back,” she pleaded.
“He has chosen his path,” Broken Wing replied with less conviction than pain.
“He goes to his death!” she cried.
“He is a warrior.”
“Then why don’t you go?”
“Perhaps because I have not as much hope as he … or perhaps I have more.”
Stone Teeth Woman wept bitterly, almost as if she were already mourning her husband. Deborah’s heart went out to her, but she could not bring herself to come to her defense, thereby encouraging her own husband to place himself in danger. However, Broken Wing’s own sense of honor prevented him from remaining in safety while the brother he loved was traveling, no matter how foolishly, into certain disaster.
He packed a leather sack with dried meat, and took a thick winter robe, for the warm summer days were already growing shorter and cooler. He saddled one of his horses to ride, choosing his favorite wa
r pony, the gray stallion. Deborah saw that he was preparing as if going to war, but she did not know if he planned to fight his brother or the white soldiers. She almost did not care as long as he returned unharmed to her. She threw her arms around him and kissed him.
“I could not live without you, Broken Wing!” she said, trying to hold back her tears.
“Remember, you are a warrior, Wind Rider. You would live. You are strong.” He kissed her in the white man’s fashion and held her tightly for a long while.
“Be careful,” she said.
“It is not the way of a warrior to be careful. But I am not seeking a battle; perhaps it will be that none will find me.”
He embraced his children, including without hesitation his daughter by adoption whom he loved no less than the son of his body. Deborah could not help feeling unsettled at how long he lingered over Blue Sky, almost as if he believed he were looking at him for the last time. Then he handed the child back to Deborah, swung up on his horse, and rode away.
Carolyn tugged at her mother’s buckskin shift. “When Nehuo come back?” she asked sadly.
“Soon, Singing Wolf. Very Soon.”
But even as Deborah spoke, the image of her brother riding off to war intruded into her mind. She had never imagined that day that she would never see him again, thinking so naively that their happy companionship would go on forever. Was it possible that nothing lasts forever? Could it be that she might never see Broken Wing again? He had left her before, to hunt buffalo, to raid his enemies, and always he had returned. Why shouldn’t he now? Why had she suddenly thought of Graham?
All at once Deborah seemed to jerk alive. Hastily she set Blue Sky on the ground and ran after her retreating husband.
“Broken Wing!” she called.
He stopped and turned in his saddle.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I love you … that’s all. I love you!” She no longer cared about the tears that spilled down her face.
“I love you also, my Wind Rider Woman!”
He leaped from his horse and raced up to her, embracing her passionately one final time before departing.
43
Broken Wing stealthily made his way north. Twice he barely avoided army patrols. Only his intimate knowledge of the land and his experienced trail skill kept him hidden from the disquieting presence of the bluecoats. He could think of no reason for battle-ready soldiers to be south of the Arkansas River, the supposed sanctuary of the Cheyenne, except for the purpose of making war.
The preacher man, Killion, had come to Broken Wing’s lodge shortly before his departure and told them of changes among the white chiefs, changes that could only mean ill for the Indians. Hancock had been disciplined for burning the Dog Soldier village and had been sent away, but his replacement was no improvement. General Phil Sheridan, according to both Killion and Deborah, was an ornery, hard-nosed sort. Quick-tempered and irascible, he was not out to make friends.
“And he especially don’t want to make friends with the Indians,” said Killion. “He has as good as declared war on the Cheyenne nation. And believe me, he’s got the ability to do it, too.”
“And the government is behind him, no doubt,” added Deborah.
“How will he do this?” asked Broken Wing. “Except for a few bands of Dog Men and those who must hunt, the Cheyenne are in the Indian Territory.”
“Sheridan don’t give a hang about Indian Territory. He thinks all the Cheyenne should pay for what was done by the few, and he ain’t gonna let a little thing like a treaty protect those he thinks are guilty. There ain’t no way the army can catch the Dog Soldiers; they’ve been trying for months and come up empty every time. Sheridan figures the only way he can get to the offenders is to strike at the villages, which are easier to find and a long sight more vulnerable.”
“But the villages are south of the Arkansas River.”
Killion had nodded grimly. “Cheyenne are Cheyenne to Sheridan. The friendlies are just as guilty as the guilty. I don’t like to spread rumors, but I reckon you got a right to hear ’em and make your own conclusions. The Seventh Cavalry has been dispatched—and I quote what I heard directly from an officer—’Locate and make war upon the families and stock of the Cheyenne.’”
Broken Wing had come away from this encounter shaking his head in disbelief. The preacher was a man of honor, yet his words could not possibly be true. Perhaps Killion had heard wrong. If he were right, then nothing—nothing!—could be trusted again.
Yet now, with his own eyes, Broken Wing saw the truth of Killion’s words. It sickened him to think that the treaty he had placed so much hope in was nothing more than a lodge of straw blown down in a slight prairie breeze.
It took Broken Wing over a week to locate Stands-in-the-River, so effectively were the Cheyenne warriors evading the bluecoat invaders. When he finally reached his brother, he was torn in his heart and had no ready answer to Stands-in-the-River’s greeting:
“So you have decided to join us!”
“Don’t you realize you are bringing danger on the whole tribe!” said Broken Wing somewhat lamely.
Crow Killer, a Dog Soldier, answered, “When have our people ever been free of the danger from the whites? And now because they cannot find warriors to fight, they will attack our families.”
“And what of the white families that were attacked in the north?”
“Only a few Cheyenne were responsible for that,” argued Stands-in-the-River. “But the white man soldiers had already killed our women and children. We will not forget Sand Creek. My mother died there, as did yours, Broken Wing.”
“When will it end?” sighed Broken Wing in despair.
“It will not end!” exclaimed Crow Killer. “Not until the whites are forced from our land.”
“Do you fight with us?” Stands-in-the-River asked again with a hard edge to his voice. “Will you protect your family from the soldiers? You know they will have no mercy. They will not say, ‘This Indian was our friend; we will spare his wife.’ To them all Indians are the same, all Cheyenne are enemies. Black Kettle was their best friend, yet the agent at Fort Cobb has refused to give him sanctuary. He says he doesn’t want to be responsible for another Sand Creek. But what kind of friend looks out for his own security when his friend is in danger? Either we fight now or watch our lodges, our lives, destroyed.”
Broken Wing realized in that dark moment that their lives would be destroyed no matter what happened. More than anything, he had wanted to believe such an impasse could be averted, but his first sighting of heavily armed soldiers in Indian Territory had prepared him for this inevitable moment. He had tried to keep to the way of peace; he had deplored the Saline raids. But now none of that mattered. It had become a simple case of survival—not cultural or aesthetic, but plain life or death. And not his own life, for he had known for some time that he would not live to be an old man; rather, his struggle was for the protection of his wife, his children, his people. He had no argument against that. The soldiers would find and do battle with any Indians they encountered. Wind Rider, Singing Wolf, and Blue Sky were at serious risk, and it was doubtful their white blood would protect them. Besides, Wind Rider considered herself Cheyenne, and he knew she would sooner fight and die with her people than claim the shield of her skin color.
Broken Wing had avoided this moment for years, but he now knew he had no other choice—as a man or as a Cheyenne warrior.
****
Through the fall of that year Broken Wing rode with the band of Cheyenne braves, succeeding in thoroughly frustrating a very beleaguered Seventh Cavalry. In a way, it was exhilarating for Broken Wing; he was a born warrior. He found pleasure in the camaraderie of his brother braves and a sense of accomplishment in their success against the army.
The white warriors were such an inept lot that Broken Wing became almost drunk with a confident sense that the Cheyenne really would be able to drive the whites from their land.
Once, in a somewhat la
ughable episode, the Cheyenne had led the soldiers on a fine chase by making a false trail of travois marks so the bluecoats would think they had at last stumbled upon a village. Eager for the anticipated slaughter, the soldiers bore down relentlessly upon the tracks only to end up trapped in a series of sand hills. With their heavy wagon wheels spinning uselessly, the whites made an easy target for the furtive Cheyenne snipers. When the soldiers tried to give chase, the Cheyennes taunted them by leading them from hill to hill, always staying out of firing range, and mysteriously disappearing just when the soldiers thought they had them.
In camp that night, the warriors had a good laugh at the expense of the Seventh Cavalry who, with only one casualty, lost more in dignity than manpower.
But all was not a merry game. The Cheyenne may have had the upper hand, but they, too, were destined to pay a price for their small victories.
In November, a small party of warriors, led by Stands-in-the-River with Broken Wing riding at his side, took a brief respite from fighting the whites in order to hunt provisions to get them through the coming winter. Stands-in-the-River spied three white army scouts riding alone and recognized immediately the importance of such a coup.
Broken Wing tried to discourage him. Scouts were not bluecoats—they were seasoned frontiersmen and no easy prey, even to Cheyenne warriors. Moreover, their presence could mean only one thing.
“More soldiers cannot be far behind,” Broken Wing reasoned.
“They will be truly lost without their scouts!” returned Stands-in-the-River.
The others agreed that taking the scouts would indeed be a hard blow to the soldiers. Before Broken Wing could protest further, they had spurred their mounts into a charge. The scouts were momentarily shocked by the sudden appearance of charging Indians over the rise of a hill, but their canny experience stood them in good stead, and they quickly gathered their wits about them and returned fire almost immediately. However, the Indians had cut them off from the larger force, and the scouts knew they had little chance of holding out for long. They had no idea that the vanguard of the force had drawn up within earshot of the melee.
