by Jory Sherman
Then, a shadow-man came up from behind and touched the pale warrior's shoulder. The warrior turned, screamed. He fell and his spirit flew out of his mouth. Then, his buckskins emptied, lay there on the ground like worn-out garments cast aside a trail. The birds descended and began to pick at the clothes. The dreamer, suddenly freed, rushed forward, slashing with his fists, and kicking at the birds. They flushed, like a flock of sage hens, flapped on to his face, smothering him. In the distance, he heard a woman's trilling death-song. From his own mouth, he heard a loud shouting, but again, he could not make out the words.
Red Tomahawk awoke with a start. Smoke from the fire clogged his nostrils, filled his lungs. He gasped for breath. A pale light suffused the cave, but it took him several seconds to realize where he was.
Deer Tracker squatted on his haunches, stirring the fire.
The snow had stopped, and it was not so cold with the wind gone.
The shadow-man in the dream lingered in Red Tomahawk's mind. He, more than the other images, bothered him. Who was this man of shadow? What had he done to the pale warrior?
"You yelled in your sleep," said Tracker, scooting back as the fresh wood caught fire.
"I was dreaming."
"You dreamed of the medicine man of the Oglalas?"
"No."
"It was his name you called."
"Whose name?"
"Crazy Horse," said Tracker, and Red Tomahawk felt the chill bumps crawl on his skin, even though he was still buried deep in his buffalo robes.
* * *
They buried the buffalo robes in the bend of the stream as Vallentine had told them to do. They weighted the heavy robes down with rocks. The waters were freezing cold, but Tracker had built a fire by the stream so that they could dry out. They dripped as they sopped up the bank to the crackling blaze. They rubbed their hands which were pale and numb from the chilly waters.
The sun was out and the snow had almost melted away in the late afternoon.
They had two robes on either side of the bend.
It seemed foolish to Red Tomahawk, but that's what the trader had told them to do.
"Make sure they won't wash downstream when the water rushes over them," he had said. "Weight them down good. Let them stay in the creek overnight,"
Tracker blew through his mouth. He no longer saw his breath. The freak storm had apparently gone away fast sometime during the night. That was good, because if it had snowed deep, the Black Hills would have been a dangerous place to be. Even so, Red Tomahawk did not like the place. It seemed haunted, like the sacred burial grounds. He jumped at every sound until Tracker looked at him oddly.
They had hunted that morning, tracked elk and deer, but their only kill had been a beaver that had ventured from its mud house too early. They had cooked it, tail and all, devoured almost all of it. It was a skinny beaver, with not much meat on it.
"We will hunt for the yellow metal upstream now," said Tracker. "We will take the robes out when the next sun comes."
"Have you seen the yellow metal?"
"I found a stone once."
"What did you do with it?"
"I gave it to Two Antelopes. He melted it down for a rifle ball."
"Did he shoot it?"
"Yes. He said it was no good. It was too soft and the powder melted it."
"I wonder what the white trader wants with it."
"I have seen whites with it in their teeth."
"Why?"
"I do not know. Maybe it is a custom."
"Where did you see this thing?"
"Soldiers. At the fort."
So, Red Tomahawk thought, Deer Tracker had been to the fort. Inside it, maybe. He wanted to ask him more, but his leggings were dry and he wanted to see if they could find the shiny yellow nuggets in the creek.
They went back to the cave and got the tin pans that Vallentine had given them. They were small, of not much use to hold food, with sloping sides that were curious. White Buffalo had told them to scoop sand in them, and water, and swish the sand around, spilling out the water until they saw yellow in the black sand. It seemed a silly thing to do, but they had practiced with dry earth until the Frenchman had been satisfied.
"Come," said Tracker, when they had eaten the rest of the beaver and hobbled the horses on a bare grazing spot near the cave.
They walked far upstream until they came to a wide spot, with a sandy bottom, shallow banks. As Jacques had told them, they worked the banks where the water eddied, cut back underneath. Squatting on the banks, they dipped into the sand, swirled the water round and round, gradually spilling it over the sides. Red Tomahawk soon realized that this was more difficult than he had imagined. His legs and arms ached. The cold water made his fingers numb. The sand wasn't very black at the edges and he did not see the yellow grains. He looked over at Trader who seemed intent on his panning.
Angrily, Red Tomahawk dug his pan in deep, dredging up more sand than he could work.
At the splash, Trader looked over at him.
Red Tomahawk started to hurl the sand back into the stream when something caught his eye. He poked a finger into a lumpy part of the sand. He touched a chunk of something. At first he thought it was a pebble, but when he pinched it between two fingers, it did not feel like a rock.
He washed the object around, held it up to the sun. It gleamed with a dull yellow glow. There were pocks and folds in the metal.
"Hou," he called Trader. "I think I have found the yellow stone."
"Wait, I will come across."
Trader went to the narrow place and jumped across. He looked at the nugget, bit it. It was soft.
"It is not very shiny," said Red Tomahawk. "Is it the yellow metal?"
"Yes. We will dig some more in this place."
As they squatted down, however, they heard the sound of hooves padding on mud and wet grass. They looked helplessly across the stream at their bows lying next to a cedar tree.
"We must run," whispered Red Tomahawk.
"Where?"
Tomahawk looked around. The stream above was blocked by huge boulders. The wall behind them was sheer rock. Across on the other side, the meadow was narrow, thick with trees and brush. Besides, the riders emerged from a stand of pines.
Tomahawk's heart sank. If these were Pawnee, Crow, or Snake, then they would have to sing their death song.
Their weapons lay a hundred yards away.
Deer Tracker was right.
There was no place to run.
There was no place to hide.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The three braves wore wolfskins. Their ponies were not painted for war. As they rode closer. Red Tomahawk's hand slid down to his waist where his knife hung under his buffalo robe. The warriors stopped twenty-five paces from the stream.
"Hou!" said a voice in Lakota.
Deer Tracker replied.
One of the warriors stepped his pony in front of the others. He slid the wolfskin cap back on his head so that his face showed.
"What are you called?" he asked.
"Red Tomahawk."
"Deer Tracker." Deer Tracker glanced quickly at his friend. It was the first time he had heard his companion's real name. He looked surprised.
"I am called Five Killer. We are Cheyenne."
"I am Oglala," said Tomahawk. "Tracker is Hunkpatila."
"You are looking for the yellow metal," said Five Killer.
"We are looking for medicine stones," said Tracker quickly.
The Cheyenne snorted, rode his pony closer. The other two braves held back, sat their ponies like stones.
"I have heard your name, Red Tomahawk," said Five Killer. "Your mother has called you dead in the Oglala camp, and the son of Crazy Horse looks for you. You are the son of Snow Wolf."
"Yes. You know my mother, Lady Walking Crow?"
"She grieves for a son she thinks has laid his bones on the prairie." The Cheyenne spoke the Lakota well. His hands moved as he made sign for emphasis.
"
When you return, tell her each sun I think of her."
"Where does one find the Oglala now?" asked the Cheyenne. "Their travois tracks lace the land. The smoke from their lodges hangs in the air even as the women strike them and the village moves on."
One of the other Indians rode up to Five Killer, looked at Red Tomahawk.
The young man recognized him as the brother of Curly's father, Crazy Horse.
"Uncle Long Face, you are here. You ride with the Cheyenne."
"Hunh," grunted the Oglala warrior. "Cheyenne, Oglala, Lakota, all are brothers against the soldiers and the many new whites coming in. Someday, says my nephew, Curly, the Indian will have to stand up as one people or be rubbed out like the buffalo herds in the south. White Beard, the soldier chief, makes much trouble. If you want to smoke with us, we will tell you why last winter was called White Beard is Holding."
Red Tomahawk and Deer Tracker learned that Long Face, Five Killer and the other Cheyenne, Cut Finger, were riding around the country to tell the people to stay away from the whites. There was much news and the tobacco was good. Long Face and Five Killer spoke, first one, then the other, telling of the troubles between the Cheyennes, the Teton Lakota and White Beard, the soldier chief.
"They wanted to make another Holy Road for the whites to go safely to Fort Pierre and White Beard Harney said that bad Indians should be brought to him for punishment, like children. He let the people trade again, but only in the fort or with Ward."
"Ward," said Tomahawk, "is hated by the Lakota."
"Even his Brule wife hates him," said Cut Finger.
"You do not trade with Bordeaux?" asked Tomahawk.
Long Face shook his head.
"No one must go to his houses. No whites can go to the Indian camps. Trading is like hunting with a single arrow."
The two young men learned that White Beard had made a lot of new paper chiefs, too, after the Oglala refused to send any of their chiefs to sign his papers. There was much anger, even after Spotted Tail and the others came back from the far place of the iron house, Fort Leavenworth. It was said that one of the warriors killed himself and this made the hearts of the people sad because this was not a good way for a warrior to give up his spirit.
"White Beard made Bear Ribs of the Hunkpapa the paper chief over all the Teton Lakotas," said Long Face. "This was a bad thing, to have your name spoke often uses up the good medicine. If the whites speak a man's name this is even worse."
"It is so," agreed everyone as the pipe was passed.
"Even so," said Five Killer, "Bear Ribs spoke strong at the council, telling Harney that the friendly Indians were starving around the forts. The agents stole their goods. He told White Beard that unless the traders were brought back, their people would go hungry. He said 'The White Beard is a bloodthirsty man to be a soldier chief, killing helpless ones when he is angry. When the whites shot my brother, my heart was bad too, but I am a chief. I must think of the people. So I let it pass.' These things Bear Ribs said, and Harney's face got red as blood. But he said he was so mad that when he rode up the Platte he shot the first Indians he saw."
"Even after he knew it was Little Thunder," said Red Tomahawk bitterly.
"Ahh, but these things are not mentioned much now. Red Leaf and Spotted Tail wear the blue soldier shirts and speak of the Great Father who told them how a bad white man is lifted into a tree with a rope around his neck and then dropped until his neck breaks and his spirit goes out of his body like breath. They said he can do this to the bad Indians who have killed whites. They say he can send enough whites to hang all the Indians from trees. They tell of the Great Father's big mercy when his little red children say they are sorry and promise not to harm any of the whites anymore."
"Who is to punish all the whites who have killed Indians?" asked Red Tomahawk bitterly.
The Cheyennes and Long Face grunted their approval of the young man's words. Deer Tracker kept silent and turned his head away as if hiding his face so no one could tell what was in his thoughts.
"I will never wear the soldier coat," said Red Tomahawk.
The others looked at him then and wondered at the passion he showed.
"It is good to see the pride of our people in my young nephew," said Long Face.
When the pipe was finished, the three warriors got up and said that they must leave.
"I would speak with Red Tomahawk in a private way," said Long Face to the others. "Come, little brother."
"Yes, my uncle," said Red Tomahawk respectfully. The Cheyennes rode their ponies off a little ways. Long Face rode his pony slow and talked to Red Tomahawk as the young man walked alongside him to a place where the trees could muffle their talk.
"Your friend Curly is making a good name for himself," said Long Face. "He is brave and reckless. And he asked us if we saw you to tell you to come to the place where the Oglalas now camp, Rawhide Buttes."
"What things has Curly done?"
"He did a brave and foolish thing when some Minneconjous went on a war party to a Crow camp. He followed them, staying hidden until Crows attacked him. The Minneconjous drove the enemies off and then struck Curly with their bows, telling him to go back to his lodge. He laughed in their faces because he knew they would not send him back alone through dangerous country. So, he came back with three Crow ponies and another good story to tell in the lodges. He has done this many times."
"Tell Curly I am still hunting the two-faced man who killed my father, Snow Wolf."
"Ho, you say this and smoke the pipe with your enemy?"
Red Tomahawk did not understand Long Face's words.
"I speak of the one you call Deer Tracker. The one who does not speak and hides his face."
"Deer Tracker?"
"He is Black Knife, an outcast from the Hunkpatila."
Red Tomahawk felt the blood drain from his face and his knees become like willow saplings quivering in the wind. He struggled to speak and no words came out. He turned and looked back to where he had left Deer Tracker standing.
The Hunkpatila was gone, and they heard the beat of pony hooves on the ground.
"Do not take the yellow metal out of the Black Hills," said Long Face, riding away. "It will bring bad luck down on you."
Red Tomahawk raced back to the place where he had left his bow. Deer Tracker's bow and quiver were gone. His own lay there, snapped in two. His quiver floated in an eddy of the creek and his arrows were scattered over the ground like twigs. He picked them up, and took the gut string from his bow. He retrieved his sodden quiver, shook the water off the deer hide. He caught up his pony and rode down the mountain alone, his anger like a raging flood in his veins.
Even as he rode up to the cave, he knew that Deer Tracker, Black Knife, would be gone. He felt the pouch hanging from his belt-sash. The gold nugget made a hard lump that he squeezed. He would not throw it away, despite what Long Face had said. He wanted the rifle in Vallentine's tent now, more than ever. He rode to the place where they had put the buffalo robes into the water. They were still there, dark waving shadows under the running water, filling up with tiny particles of yellow metal that he could not see with his naked eye.
Black Knife had gotten away, for now, but Red Tomahawk knew he would find him. He knew his face now, and even if he took a hundred different names for himself, he could not escape.
* * *
Red Tomahawk woke early, walked to the bend in the stream. Water rippled over the sunken buffalo robes. They would be heavy, he knew. He stripped to his breechclout despite the cold and waded into the creek. He removed the stones from the first robe, careful to stand downstream. He tugged the robe loose, skated it underwater to the bank. He climbed up, pulled it over the bank, left it to dry in the sun. He did the same with the second robe. He panted from the effort, rested against a tree before putting on his buckskins.
He checked his pistol. Now that his bow was broken, it would have to be his main weapon. He loaded it with powder and ball, capped it. He caught up his pony an
d hunted. He found the tracks of Black Knife's pony, trailed them for a ways. They headed south.
Later, a snowshoe rabbit jumped from a clump of brush. Tomahawk cocked the single-shot pistol, whistled. The rabbit, curious, stopped, sat up. The Oglala took careful aim at twenty paces. He pulled the trigger.
The ball plowed a furrow through mud made from melting snow, five paces in front of the rabbit. The animal took off, circled, stopped. With shaking hands, Tomahawk reloaded the pistol, fishing out the small horn flask from his beaded leather pouch, measuring by pouring powder over the ball in the center of his hand. He shook the powder into the muzzle, tapped the receiver to make sure most of it went into the breech. He cut a patch, put it in his mouth to wet it. Then, he put the ball on the pouch, started it down the barrel with the wooden short starter. He trimmed the patch with his sharp hunting knife, seated the ball with the ramrod. He then capped the pistol. When he looked up, the rabbit was gone.
He rode after it, tracking from his pony's back. But the tracks disappeared into a shallow ravine. He rode around it, yelled, but failed to flush the animal. Disappointed, he headed the pony back to the creek. His belly drew up, tightened with hunger.
"I will have to shoot better," he told himself, "or I will starve." More than ever, he wished for the trade rifle with its long barrel.
The buffalo robes had dried in the sun, the gentle mountain breezes. The pony spooked to see them and Tomahawk had to ride him a way, snub him to a scrub pine tree. He walked to the robes, rolled up each one, tied them with leather thongs. He carried them, one at a time, to his pony, saw that they were too thick to ride on the animal's back.
He took his knife and cut thick saplings, rigged a travois. He tied the crossed poles to his pony, loaded the rest of his things on the travois and set off south in search of Black Knife.
He rode out of the Black Hills and into prairie country. He jumped a herd of antelope and once more longed for the good rifle with the long reach. They bounded away from him, white rumps flashing in the sun. His belly tautened once again and his mouth became wet with saliva.
