by Jory Sherman
A man who would lie, could not be trusted, even though his hands were empty and he called himself friend.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Red Tomahawk looked at the rows of wagons, the many comings and goings of Indians. Travois tracks laced the ground, and Crow Butte, mantled with snow, brooded over Lakota lodges and white men's tents. Talk and laughter drifted to his ears as he and Deer Tracker rode in from the east. They had seen soldiers on the Holy Road and were chased by some who shot rifles at them from a great distance.
They saw outcasts from many tribes, including Minneconjous, Cheyenne, Brules, Oglalas and Hunkpatila. Smoke from cooking fires threaded the sky, and children played with sticks and hoops. Women strolled in and out of the traders' tents and young braves played tag on their ponies. But Red Tomahawk realized many of the Indians there had come for the firewater. He saw several young braves staggering about or lying on the ground in a stupor. It made his heart sad to see these drunken young men robbed of their senses by the burning cup.
"Come," said Deer Tracker, "I will take you to my trader friend, Jacques Vallentine."
"I do not want the firewater."
Deer Tracker laughed.
"No Name, you are like the wolf sniffing at a thrown-away bone with man-smell on it. There is no trap. You do not have to drink the whiskey. I do not drink it because it is poison."
"Why do we see this white man, then?"
"Because he is a good trader and he talks with one tongue. He speaks Lakota and his wife is a Minneconjou. He will trade for skins or buffalo hides and other things."
"Other things?"
"The yellow metal that is found in the Yellowstone."
"It is not good to give the white men yellow metal from our lands."
"Our lands? Do you not see the whites come here and come here and never go away? Soon they will darken the land like buffalo and the Indian will be crowded out in places they do not want for their people."
"No!" shouted Red Tomahawk. "We are strong. We are many. Curly will lead our people and we will drive the soldiers out."
"Ho, you talk brave, little one with no name. And who is Curly? A girl?"
"He is the son of the medicine man, Crazy Horse."
"And he is a brave warrior? I have not heard of his deeds."
"He will be. He is brave. And he is wise. He knows many things."
They rode on into the temporary trading post, but Red Tomahawk was reluctant to talk about his friend Curly any more. Perhaps he had said too much already.
Jacques Vallentine sat in a chair made from a powder keg, his tough, wiry frame shrouded in a bright red capote. On the ground in front of him lay a green and black-striped blanket littered with trade goods: flint, powder, ball, Northwest trade rifles, caps, nipples, ramrods, brass powder flasks and buffalo powderhorns, iron tomahawks, knives, iron-tipped cedar arrows, stacks of woolen blankets, linsey-woolsey shirts, leather pouches and possible bags, beaver and cloth hats, sashes, bright scarves, flint strikers, and caplock pistols. His moccasin boots stretched out over the blanket, laced to the knees. A fired clay jug sat within easy reach and there were more goods stacked in the tent behind him.
He stood up when Deer Tracker and Red Tomahawk walked up, leading their four ponies.
He spoke in rapid Lakota to the Hunkpatila, held his right hand up in a sign of greeting.
"Hou cola," he said. "You bring ponies to trade. Good. I have fine goods, warm blankets for the winter moons, iron tomahawks, good shooting guns."
"This is my friend, No Name. He is Oglala. We will think of making a good trade with you, White Buffalo."
Vallentine was called this by the Indians who knew he had killed an albino bison. He carried the cape and head with him still, and when he slept at night it was in a snowy buffalo blanket. Many braves had tried to trade for his sacred blanket, but he would not give it up for anything the Indian had.
His Minneconjou wife peered out from the tent. She was called Morning Sun. She looked at Red Tomahawk intently for a long moment before her face disappeared from the opening.
"Do you want to trade that good pony?" Vallentine asked Red Tomahawk.
He shook his head.
"Look at my goods. If you see anything you like, we will talk, eh?"
The Oglala, nervous, looked over the trade goods, His glance kept drifting to the rifles, the pistols. The shrewd French trader noticed this little thing and stooped down, picked up one of the pistols. It was a single-shot, .41 caliber caplock.
He hammered it back, held it out in an aiming position, sighting down the barrel. The pistol had a rear groove sight, front blade. It was not very well made, but Red Tomahawk's eyes brightened.
"Would you like to shoot it?" asked Vallentine.
Again, the Oglala shook his head.
"Go ahead," urged Deer Tracker. "Make it smoke."
"It shoots a long way," said the trader. "It will kill an enemy many paces away."
Vallentine picked up a powder flask, a brass measuring cylinder. He set the measurement for 40 grains, poured .FFFg powder until it was level. He then emptied the powder down the barrel. He cut a patch from a strip of cloth, put it in his mouth. He then rattled a pouch full of lead balls, squeezed one out into his palm. He wrapped the undersized ball in the well-salivated pouch, set it on the muzzle. He took a wooden short starter, pushed the ball and patch into the barrel. Next, he pulled the ramrod from under the barrel and seated the ball on the powder.
The trader took a capbox from his pocket, shook out a percussion cap. He placed this on the nipple of the cocked pistol, walked around the side of the tent.
"Come, No Name, and shoot this fine pistol."
Deer Tracker jabbed Red Tomahawk in the back, pushing him to follow the trader.
Valletine pointed to an empty bottle twenty-five yards in back of his tent.
"See if you can break that glass," he said. "Look down the barrel. Hold the pistol straight out. Use one eye, but keep both eyes open."
Red Tomahawk took the pistol. He looked into its barrel. Vallentine's face blanched as color drained out of the capillaries. He reached out, shoved the pistol barrel away from him.
"It has powder inside," he said. "If you pull that trigger when you look down the barrel you will be called No Face."
Deer Tracker laughed.
Red Tomahawk looked puzzled, but waved the pistol away from his face. He looked at the empty bottle as if wondering what to do next.
Small boys came from nowhere to witness the young brave's first shooting of the pistol. A few men walked over, too. Red Tomahawk started to hand the pistol back to Vallentine. The muzzle pointed at the trader, who ducked.
"No, no, shoot it, shoot it," said the Frenchman.
"Let me show you how to stand and aim."
Deer Tracker grinned at Tomahawk's awkwardness.
Vallentine grabbed the Oglala's shoulders, moved him into position. He pushed Tomahawk's right arm up until it jutted straight from the youth's shoulder. Next, he positioned his head.
"Don't put your finger on the trigger, that little metal stub sticking out, until you can see the bottle over the front sight." As he explained the working of the pistol, Vallentine touched each part. When Red Tomahawk was set, Vallentine stepped back.
"Now, look for the bottle beyond that blade front sight."
Indians stuck their fingers in their ears, including Deer Tracker. The pistol wavered in Red Tomahawk's hand, but he steadied it. Despite the trader's instructions, he closed his left eye, squinted the right one.
Some of the white men also wandered over, poking each other in fun.
Red Tomahawk took aim at the bottle. His finger found the cocked trigger. He pulled it backwards. The pistol roared in his hand. A cloud of white smoke and flame billowed from the barrel. He felt the weapon buck in his hand. The acrid stench of burnt black powder filled his nostrils.
The bottle exploded into fragments.
A cheer rose up from the spectators.
V
allentine slapped Red Tomahawk on the back. Deer Tracker grinned wide. A low murmur of guttural approval rippled through the bunches of assembled Indians.
Red Tomahawk looked at the shattered bottle through the clearing smoke and nodded, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips.
"Waste," he said softly. "Good."
Smashing the bottle from such a distance, with no more than a flick of his finger, gave the youth a strange feeling of power. He looked at the pistol in his hand, hefted it, assessed its weight. It felt like nothing he had ever touched before. He rubbed the smooth metal of the barrel, touched the blade front sight. He looked at the wood of the grips, hickory, sanded and stained, held onto the frame with little screws. Truly this was a magic white man's thing, but an Indian could use it. It would be strong medicine against his enemies.
He had heard Curly and the others talk about guns, but mostly the big wagon guns and the rifles. This little rifle that could be held in one hand was a good weapon. It could break a bottle. It could kill a man.
"We trade," he told the Frenchman. "I will give you a Pawnee pony for this little fireshooting stick."
Vallentine threw back his head and laughed.
"That would be a good trade," he said, "but you would not be able to shoot it. You would have to buy powder, ball, thundercaps."
"You trade all for the good pony I have brought."
"No, my friend, but I have a better idea. Come to my tent and we will talk."
Vallentine reached for the empty pistol, but Red Tomahawk pulled it out of his grasp.
"Keep," he said.
"You keep, No Name. For a while. Come. Let's talk. You come too, Deer Tracker." The crowd broke up, muttering in low tones, as the trio walked away. The fun was over.
The three men entered Vallentine's tent. Morning Sun again looked at Red Tomahawk, then averted her eyes. Jacques spoke to her in the Minneconjou dialect and she opened a packet of tea, put water over the coals to boil.
"Sit," said the Frenchman, indicating places where the two braves could squat. Red Tomahawk still held onto the pistol, admiring it openly, turning it over and over in his hands.
The Indians sat on folded trade blankets. Red Tomahawk looked around the odd square-shaped tent in surprise. There were brass cooking utensils and iron rods over the fire with metal hooks hanging down. Morning Sun stayed shyly quiet, but she kept looking at the Oglala. Deer Tracker noticed this attention, but said nothing.
Jacques brought out his pipe and tobacco. He offered the tobacco in the Indian way, sprinkled some onto the coals. He filled the pipe, lit it with a burning twig. He sucked deeply, blew smoke out, passed it to Red Tomahawk as his guest.
The men smoked without saying what was on their minds and Morning Sun, when the water was boiling, poured it over tea she set in tin cups.
"Those cups are hot," said Jacques. "This is good strong tea. Good for the blood."
Red Tomahawk had never tasted the white man's tea, but he had heard about it. He tasted it, smacked his lips. It did not taste like bark tea. It was strong and bitter, but he was too polite to spit it out.
"Now," said Vallentine, "let us talk about the pistol, and maybe you would like a rifle, too. Both of you."
Deer Tracker nodded. Red Tomahawk gripped the pistol tightly, as if afraid the trader would take it away from him when he was not looking.
"I will tell you what I want, and if you bring me what I ask, you will both have rifles and pistols, plenty of powder and ball. Even some good leather bags to carry ammunition in. Eh? Does this make you lick your lips?"
"We would have the white man's guns," said Tracker. "We have two ponies to trade."
"Yes, I'll take the ponies. For a little bit of what you have to pay. But, I want something else, and you must ride to the Paha Sapa and bring me back this thing."
"It will be cold there," said Red Tomahawk. "What is it that you want?" In his mind, he already owned the new pistol.
"The yellow metal," said Jacques, his voice as low as a whisper. "You will find it in the streams there, in the rocks. You must not say anything to anyone about this and I will not speak of it as well."
"The shining yellow metal . . ."said Deer Tracker, musing.
"The Black Hills are sacred," said Red Tomahawk. "We cannot do this thing."
Jacques smiled understanding, then reached for the pistol.
"Gold," he said softly, "or the pistol is still mine."
Anger boiled up in Red Tomahawk's senses. He glared at the white man, his eyes blazing with a fierce light.
"No," he said. "I want this little rifle that fits in the hand."
"Then you must go to the Black Hills and bring me back much of the yellow metal."
Red Tomahawk looked at Deer Tracker. The Hunkpatila nodded.
"We will go to the Paha Sapa," said Red Tomahawk.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Paha Sapa, the Black Hills, brooding sacred mountains of the Lakota, loomed over the two riders as they huddled in their buffalo robes, leaned into the brunt of the wind atop their ponies. Snowflakes swirled past their faces, caught on the curly hairs of the robes, layered the land like the white man's milled flour. The two men had slept in dry caves for a week and now they were caught in the open with the wind cutting their faces like sharp knives, chilling their bones, blinding them with blowing snow.
Four dead rabbits, gutted and stiffening in the wind chill, hung from Red Tomahawk's sash, killed less than an hour ago with their bows. Ahead of him, Deer Tracker made a sign that he was lost. No landmarks were visible in the whirling whiteness that seemed to enclose them, block them off from where they wanted to go. Once in a while they glimpsed sheer rock walls, a towering spire, but the visions disappeared as the snowfall thickened.
Red Tomahawk rode up alongside his companion, shouted above the wolf howl of the wind.
"Over there! Water falling." He pointed to the east. "Maybe a cave."
Tracker turned his pony out of the northern teeth of the storm. The snow was beginning to drift. The horses had to pick their way over rocks and deepening snow mounds that looked like white men's graves.
"This is a bad place for us," shouted Red Tomahawk, but his words were hurled away by the wind and Tracker plodded on blindly toward an uncertain destination.
He was glad to be away from his people during this time of much sadness. The attack on Little Thunder's camp at Blue Water had been like a thunderclap through the land of the Lakota. And when White Beard rode up from Laramie to Fort Pierre on the Missouri, many had wanted to attack him, drive him out. So, the council fires had burned, the pipes had been smoked and the old men said that they had no leader and that if they let the soldier chief ride on through that he might go away since he would see no Indians to kill. But they were wrong, because he did not go away and he sent runners back to tell the chiefs they must come and council with him at Fort Pierre.
There had been talk too, even at the trader camp, that the soldiers were bringing in many guns and much ammunition in order to bring war to the Lakota in the spring. So, Red Tomahawk had traded his pony for the pistol and White Buffalo had given him powder and ball. The trader said that he would give them rifles and many gifts if they brought back to him the yellow metal that could be found in the streams that coursed through the Black Hills. He told them much about finding the little stones that were both heavy and soft. He told them where to look and how to dig. It did not sound like good work to Red Tomahawk, but he wanted the rifle and he had nothing to trade now that he had given up the Pawnee pony.
Vallentine had said that they might find many nuggets in the spring when the snows melted, so they had hunted and fished, stayed in friendly lodges during the long winter. Now, a late spring snow had caught them by surprise as they entered the Black Hills. Of course, no white man could go to that sacred place and he promised he would not talk about this to any Lakota,
Red Tomahawk had talked with Deer Tracker about this thing they were going to do and the older man had said
that no one would care. The Lakota had no use for the yellow metal and if the white man wanted something that had so little value, it was good to pull the blanket over his eyes and fool him.
They rode into the lee of a cliff and the wind backed off for a minute so that they could see. Beyond the swirling snow, the dark mouth of a cave loomed through the shadowy light. It was large enough for the ponies and Deer Tracker began to dig his heels into his horse's flanks and slap its rump with a hand gloved with a buffalo-hide mitten.
The ponies balked at entering the cave, so the two men dismounted and pulled the animals through the opening. The cave smelled of wolf and bear, making the ponies nervous.
Red Tomahawk shivered, began to unload his packs.
Deer Tracker did the same. They ventured back outside to look for firewood. They gathered what they could carry and threw their loads inside the cave. Soon, they had enough to keep the fire going through the night.
When they were warm from the fire, they smoked, then roasted the rabbits. The ponies, hungry, nickered for food.
Both men spoke but little, listening, instead to the spirit sounds of the wind. Red Tomahawk was filled with a sense of foreboding.
"We should not have come here," he said.
Deer Tracker said nothing. He poked at the fire, peered into the coals. Light flickered on his bronze face, glittered in his coal-dark eyes. He was still squatting there when Red Tomahawk crawled into his buffalo robes and closed his eyes.
He slept deep. Toward morning, he dreamed a strange dream.
The big wolf prowled through deep snow, its fur flocked with white. Big as a man, it wore a single eagle feather behind one ear. There was a loud explosion. The wolf fell. A crimson stain spread from its back onto the snow. The eagle feather floated upward. The wolf changed into a man. Out of the mists stepped a lone brave carrying a war lance fluttering with hawk and eagle feathers. The warrior was pale, transparent, like a spirit. The snow melted away. The dreamer tried to reach the pale warrior, but the mud gripped his moccasins, held him back. He called out with words he did not understand, although they were in the Lakota tongue. The pale warrior tipped his lance and a cloud of big birds with dark blue feathers flew down from the sky and swarmed around him. He knocked them out of the sky with his lance. Blood spattered his buckskins, but he was unhurt.
