by Jory Sherman
CHAPTER TWELVE
Snow Wolf lay shivering in a buffalo robe inside Spotted Tail's lodge. Spotted Tail, too, was wounded, but his heart was strong and he recognized the boy who darkened the doorway of his lodge.
"Snow Wolf," said Spotted Tail, "your son, the Crow killer, is here."
Snow Wolf opened eyes that were watery with pain. He coughed, and bright red blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.
"My son," he rasped.
Red Tomahawk knelt by his side, felt his father's hand reach out from under the blanket and touch his own. He grabbed the hand, squeezed it tightly. There was no strength in his father's grasp.
"Did old Tesson shoot you?"
Snow Wolf shook his head slowly.
"He was there, waiting. His nephew, Black Knife shot the lead ball into my back. Yellow Dog is dead. Killed by Tesson."
"Black Knife shot him in the back," said Spotted Tail. "They were doing bad things to the daughter of Running Bird."
Red Tomahawk knew her. Morning Sky. She had no more than ten summers.
"She is dead," said Snow Wolf. "Black Knife killed her too and then he ran off with his uncle."
"I will kill Black Knife," said Red Tomahawk. "I will not stop until I find him."
"He goes with the white soldiers," said Spotted Tail. "The white men will protect him."
"I will bring you his scalp, Father."
Snow Wolf's eyes closed and a shuddering ripple coursed through his body. Red Tomahawk lifted the buffalo robe, looked underneath. His father looked so frail. The blood had been washed off his skin, but a few dark streaks remained. He saw the place where the ball had come out of his chest, between braided scars from the sundance. Someone had packed mud and medicine leaves over the big wound, big as a boy's fist.
His father's grip on his hands relaxed.
Red Tomahawk looked at Spotted Tail.
"He gives up his spirit," said the tall warrior. "Go and tell Red Leaf that our brother has gone."
Numbly, Red Tomahawk left the lodge. He staggered toward Red Leaf's lodge. Curly and He Dog emerged out of the shadows. They asked about Snow Wolf and walked with him. Red Leaf scowled when he was told of Snow Wolf's death.
"We will put up the death scaffold," he said. "Make your smoke."
Red Tomahawk joined his friends. They walked to the edge of the little lake.
"What are you doing here, He Dog?" he asked.
"We were visiting," he said, "when we heard of the soldiers coming."
"Did you fight?"
"I fought. We all fought, but it was a bad day. Come, eat at my lodge and I will tell you and Curly all that happened."
Red Tomahawk made his smoke, offering tobacco to the four sacred directions, said his prayers to the Great Spirit. He felt empty, lost in this sad camp where a few women trilled their grief for those of their people who had been hurt and captured or rubbed out by the white soldiers.
After he and Curly had eaten, He Dog told them what had happened.
"We saw the walking soldiers coming up the Blue Water yesterday morning," he said. "I saw the golden horn and the striped flag. At first we thought there was no reason to worry, with just walking soldiers. But some of the women were afraid and they took down their lodges. They went up the creek, thinking they would hide in the hills and wait until the soldiers went away. I heard some of them screaming and one came running back saying she had seen many horse soldiers and wagon guns.
"The women could not go that way because the horse soldiers cut them off. Even so, the chiefs rode out to talk with the walking soldiers. Spotted Tail and Iron Shell carried the white flags that mean peace to the whites. Some of us sneaked up to listen to the talk. Little Thunder sat and spoke to the soldier chief with the white beard, he calls himself Harney. The chiefs said they wanted peace. Little Thunder told the soldier chief that he had not fought the white soldiers, but said he had always talked peace even when Conquering Bear was dying and when the hotbloods wanted to go against the fort.
"The soldier chief said he did not know any of this, but he had come to get those who had killed Grattan and his soldiers. He told Little Thunder to give him the Indians who had done this.
"Little Thunder said that he could not do this thing because the Minneconjous had gone north and no one could say who of the Brules had helped kill the white soldiers. He said there was much smoke and much anger and that Grattan had fired first on Conquering Bear who was a white man's Indian chief. But White Beard Harney yelled that the killers must be turned over to him.
"When the chiefs went back to camp to tell the people to get ready to fight, the soldiers began shooting into the camp. They rode over children with their horses and they used swords. We all ran and we fought as best we could, but the soldiers were everywhere, swarming like clouds of mosquitoes. Many were shot and wounded. Iron Shell and Spotted Tail threw down the white flags and fought the soldiers with bows, holding them off so many people could escape. Some of us hid in caves and the soldiers fired the wagon guns, killing many of us. There was no family who did not lose people, including my own."
"But there was much bravery," said Curly.
"Spotted Tail, for one. He gave his horse to his younger wife, sending her away to save herself, but she stood on the hill, watching the fight. Her husband, unarmed at first, was attacked by a charging soldier with a sword. He grabbed the sword and knocked the soldier from his horse. He took the horse and rode through the lines of soldiers, striking many, knocking them down. He is wounded in four places and Little Thunder is wounded and our hearts are dark with sorrow."
"And I have lost my father, too," said Red Tomahawk rising. "I will follow the soldiers and I will kill Black Knife."
Curly looked at him, an odd light in his eyes.
"You would choose that path? No one will go with you, my brother."
"I would not have anyone go with me. I leave my grief in my father's death robe and on his scaffold."
He Dog swallowed something in his throat.
"I will give you some arrows," said Curly, "and a good bow."
"Let me get you food and a quiver," said He Dog, his eyes wet like dew on a morning flower.
And Red Tomahawk rode out of the camp by the little lake at dawn, full of grief and anger.
He did not know then that it would be many summers before he would see Curly and He Dog again.
Nor did he know all the reasons that he hated the white man. But, he knew that something terrible had happened to his people that would make some of them act like Black Knife and the skulking old man Tesson.
Red Tomahawk took to the hills to purify himself for his mission. He rode into the great sand hills where a man could be lost, where there was often a great silence and where bad spirits could be sent away. He tried to picture Black Knife in his mind, remembering him only from those days spent in the shadow of the white man's fort at Laramie, knowing him to be a few years older, a member of the Hunkpatila and Oglala tribes. He had become of those loaf-about-the-fort Indians who drank from the burning cup and stayed in trader's lodges or empty adobes.
Tesson was a man of two faces, not to be trusted. His nephew now walked in his footsteps, and had killed one of his own kind.
The young man rode deep into territory he did not know and when he found a watering place, he spread there his blankets, made his fire. He thought about Lady Walking Crow and knew she would grieve for Snow Wolf. He had left his own grief behind, but now, in the silence, he thought of his father as he had been: strong, brave, a good hunter, a good warrior. A man to be trusted. Snow Wolf had made him his first bow, helped him make his second one. He had taught him to shoot straight and far, how to build up his muscles so that his arm would pull the bow and hold it steady.
There was a big emptiness in his life, now, and the endless sand hills made him feel even more empty.
He made his smoke, offering tobacco to the four directions and to the sky. Then, he put his pipe away, began his fast.
; He dreamed of horses and snakes, of blue-coated soldiers on iron steeds, of Indians shooting arrows of silver and fire. He dreamed of red lakes and blue sunsets. He dreamed of brown men and blood-covered mountaintops. He dreamed of metal-leaved aspen and fishes that could fly. He dreamed of spiders and wolves, of wooden teepees and soft adobes that melted in the sun.
His dreams did not make sense to him for the first couple of moons, but as his hunger went away, he began to see visions even when he was awake. He saw great hordes of brown ants covering a vast plain. He saw snow fall on them and break them up into bunches, saw them scatter and stream in all directions. He saw them grow big and fight the snowflakes with lances made from twigs. He saw them turn into brave warriors speaking in strange tongues. He saw the snowflakes turn into men with firesticks that boomed, sprouted fire that was like flowers on a hillside.
He saw the warrior-ants surround the white snowmen and run over them until the earth turned red with blood.
He awoke with a start, in the middle of this dream and stared up at the clear, star-dotted sky. In the distance he heard a howling wolf, and in the lingering overtones, the trilling cry of a Lakota woman keening for her dead child.
But the silence returned and Red Tomahawk knew that he had been given signs that he must try and understand. For some odd reason, he thought of Curly, wondered if he too had visions. His friend seemed so close he almost called out his name. That would be foolish, he knew, yet he felt that if he thought hard enough, no matter where he was, Curly would come.
After seven suns, Red Tomahawk rode out of the sand hills, back toward the Blue Water. South of there, he would find the Shell, the Platte, and ride to the white man's fort to look for Black Knife. He was gaunt, lean, his senses sharpened to a fine point from his fasting.
Now, he hunted rabbits, cooked the stringy meat over a small fire that made little smoke. He was wary, suspicious. When he saw Indians, he rode long circles around them, staying to himself, unwilling to talk or fight if they were his enemies, the Crow or Pawnee.
He rode through the old camp and saw that the people had been back, taken everything of value and moved on. It was like the killing ground after the buffalo hunt when the old men had combed the earth for flint or metal arrow tips and saved everything that could be used. The Oglala knew that they should no longer depend on the white man for anything. Afterwards, as was the custom, they had turned all the buffalo skulls to face the east. This was a way of thanking Pte for the hunt, for providing his brother, the Lakota with meat, robes and sinew.
After he passed through the Blue Water, Red Tomahawk headed south to the Platte.
But now, he no longer rode by day. Instead, he slept in hidden safe places, hobbling his pony where the grazing was good. He rode at night, and when he reached the Holy Road, he took his knife and cut his hair, changing his appearance so no one would recognize him. He looked into the waters of the river and saw his thin face shimmering in the ripples.
Then, he took his blade and cut deep into his cheek just below the temple. He slid the knife point down to his chin, making a slow arc. He rubbed dirt and small gravel into the wound to keep it open, make it wide.
By the time he reached the Bordeaux settlement, Red Tomahawk had a vivid scar on one side of his face. His short-cut hair made him look younger, made his eyes look bigger.
He rode up on his pony and no one recognized him, nor could anyone, from his odd babble, tell anything about him except that he was a Lakota.
Jim Bordeaux, in fact, took him to be one of those Brules who had been at Conquering Bear's camp that day and had been wounded, left to starve after the retreat.
"That one," he said, pointing to Red Tomahawk and tapping his own temple, "has lost his mind."
Inside, Red Tomahawk was grinning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Although Snow Wolf was dead, his words lived on in his son's mind.
"If you want to observe the Crow," he had told Red Tomahawk when he was a young boy just learning to hunt, "you must become a tree. If you wish to know the Crow's nature, you must become an owl."
There were other lessons he remembered now that he was so close to the white man's fort at Laramie. He spoke little, content to be thought crazy or foolish, so that he could learn much. He knew that if he asked about Tesson or Black Knife, there would be suspicions and questions.
"If you would learn what men think," Snow Wolf had told him, "then you must be silent and listen. The quietest man in council is the one men say the most to because they think if one says little, he does not understand."
The trading post at Bordeaux flowed with much talk and Red Tomahawk kept his ears open.
He learned that White Beard Harney would let no more Indians into the fort until those who robbed the mail wagon surrendered.
Next, he said no Indians could go near the trading posts.
Red Tomahawk drifted away from Bordeaux after this order was sent to the trader. He rode north a few miles, looking for a place to hide that would also let him see the fort and the Holy Road.
Someone followed him and he saw this, even when he circled, and doubled back, the lone Indian stuck to his trail. Finally, Red Tomahawk waited along the river in the brush. When the rider came up close, he kicked his pony out of the brush, drew his bow.
The Indian held up an open palm in the sign of peace.
"Don't shoot me dead," said the Indian. "I mean you no harm, I bring no weapon against you."
"That is so. Why do you follow me?"
"I have seen you at the Bordeaux stockade. You do not talk much. But you are Lakota. I am Lakota."
"I am Oglala."
"And I am Hunkpatila."
"I do not know you."
"No one knows you, as well. I have asked about you."
Red Tomahawk looked the Hunkpatila over. The man had at least 20 summers. He was short, plump, with a puffy moon face, a dark shock of hair that fell over his forehead, almost covered one eye. He wore a single braid that dangled over his shoulder; a medicine bag nestled behind his ear. His quiver hung from his sash, his bow was slung over his shoulder, His knife jutted from his waistband. He wore buckskins that had seen much use and some of the beads were missing.
"Why do you do this? You will bring me trouble."
"It was my thought to ride together now that the soldier chief says we must not go to the trading posts."
"What are you called?"
"Deer Tracker."
"That is a good name. But I ride alone."
"Soldiers will shoot you. They hunt lone Indians like rabbits."
Red Tomahawk knew that Deer Tracker spoke true. Still, he was wary of this Hunkpatila who had followed him.
"Why do you not live with your people?" he asked.
"Why do you not live with yours?"
"I asked you first."
"Our people are scattered like the leaves, hiding from soldiers like women. I want to fight. I want to kill white soldiers."
"Have you killed any?"
"I have killed one. He was hiding in the bushes with wounds in him. I put an arrow through his mouth."
"Did you take his scalp?"
"No. I ran away after striking coup with my bow."
Deer Tracker rose in Red Tomahawk's esteem. He had heard that some soldiers had run into the brush after Grattan had been rubbed out. Perhaps this Hunkpatila had come across one such white and done what he had said.
"Are you not afraid of the white soldiers?"
"I do not want to be run down by them, killed like a crazy dog. I know some white traders where we can go. The soldiers will not know and these traders will not turn their faces against and talk to the soldiers."
"The Laramie White Beard has said that no Indian can go to the trader forts."
"Did you not know that the Brules are coming to the white man's fort? And the white man's papers with the talking signs are calling White Beard a bad name, Squaw Killer Harney. The whites say he quit fighting too soon and that he only rubbed out
women and children. But he has many Brules locked up in the iron house, including Iron Shell's wife, and other young women that the soldiers use like the women who go behind the lodges."
Red Tomahawk knew that Iron Shell's wife was young and pretty. He did not like to think of other women in the iron house being used by the soldiers.
"Why are the Brules coming? They will fight White Beard?"
"Ho! You do not know anything, little brother. Yesterday a runner came to the soldier chief and gave him a message from the Brules that they were coming to give up those who had killed Grattan. Even now, they are near Laramie. There is much keening among the women and the runner said that big men chiefs will die to free their women and children from the iron house."
Red Tomahawk was amazed at this piece of news. At the same time, his heart filled with a heaviness he could not explain. After seeing what White Beard did to Little Thunder's village, he wondered why he would bring his people near the soldier guns at the fort. He had heard that both Spotted Tail and Little Thunder had recovered from their wounds as if they were only scratches. No, it must be a trick. Perhaps the Brules wanted the soldier chief to think they were going to surrender. Then, when White Beard was lulled like a mouse by a hunting snake, the Brules would attack.
"Let us go to the Brule camp when the sun has been swallowed up," said Red Tomahawk.
"You will go inside the camp?"
"No."
"You do not tell me why."
Red Tomahawk shook his head. He did not want to see Curly and He Dog until he made good on his vow to kill Black Knife. So far, he had not crossed the bad man's path.
"Let's go, then."
So it was that Red Tomahawk joined up with Deer Tracker. They rode down the trail, looking for signs of the Brules. They saw the lodges going up near the soldier fort at Laramie.
"We will stay in the brush until dark," said Red Tomahawk. From their position, they could see the soldier guns, hear the white men calling to one another. But there was no shooting. It looked as if the Brules had come to visit relatives as in days gone by, or go to the trading houses and make talk, get food to eat and white men's clothes to wear. Yet, there was no joy in the camp and no Brules rode toward the trader houses. Instead, members of the warrior society rode around the camp, chasing back young boys who wanted to play outside the big circle.
