It saddened him, mostly because of his children. He had a boy eleven summers, a daughter eight summers, and another son only four summers. Cale wanted very much to go north and continue the fight, for he was a warrior at heart and buried deep inside was the old spirit and pride that had never really left him. But he had to think of his family. Soldier attacks were vicious now, especially toward the more warlike Indians. They used the big cannon from the hills, showering Indian villages with shrapnel that killed from far off, setting tipis on fire. Women and babies were murdered with no more feeling than a white man felt killing a rabbit. There seemed to be no honor in the way they fought, and even when mostly women and children were killed in an attack, it was called a “victory” for the brave bluecoats.
He wanted peace, and life, for his wife and children. If that meant staying with Black Kettle and leaving for a new reservation, then he would do it. He only wished his grandfather could be here now. It would be easier to make these decisions. And how he missed the man! How he missed his whole family. But he kept in mind his own words to his mother all those years ago—how long had it been? At least fifteen years. They would always be together in spirit. He wondered what his sister looked like. Surely very beautiful now. And he had no doubt his mother was still beautiful. How old would she be now? Close to fifty? Surely that was impossible! He wondered if they had found Tom, or if his grandfather was even still alive.
He would not give up his hope that Blue Hawk would one day return to the Cheyenne. He could not imagine his grandfather dying out there in the place called California. He would come back to his people, and Bear Above would see his grandfather again. Blue Hawk would die fighting like a true warrior, and Bear Above would take him to the mountains and give him the proper Cheyenne burial.
He sighed, dismissing the longing thoughts that brought an ache to his heart. He moved an arm around Snowbird and kissed her neck. They both lay naked under a robe, while the children slept nearby. It was not yet light, but Cale could not sleep. Snowbird turned to him, smiling.
“This is not the time, my husband.”
Cale nibbled at her lips. “Anytime will do. Who says a man can take his woman only certain times?”
“I am not sure. But it was probably a woman.”
They both laughed lightly and Cale moved on top of her. “I have a need. I feel . . .” His smile faded. “I feel I must hurry and make love to my woman, before someone takes her away.”
She opened her legs readily. Never once had she turned him away. Why should she, when she took as much pleasure in him as he took in her? “And who is going to take me away? We are a few Indians alone here, waiting only for word from the white man’s government when our supplies will come and where we must go to be safe.”
He studied her lovingly, coming down to meet her mouth. They soon moved together, while outside an American flag flew from the tent of Black Kettle, symbolizing the Indian leader’s desire to cooperate with the white man.
Dawn began to break just slightly as Cale and Snowbird shared bodies in joyous pleasure. Soon his life spilled into her womb, and Snowbird hoped that this time the seed would take hold and she would give her husband another son, even though another mouth to feed would be difficult. She would do anything to keep Bear Above from falling into the terrible depression some of his friends had felt, some of them even committing suicide. Bear Above loved his children. He felt a great responsibility toward them. Many children would keep him a happy man, even if they had to live on a reservation. And he knew a little bit about the white man’s ways of ranching and farming. Perhaps they could be happy on a reservation, at least a little happier than most.
Cale moved off her, stretching out on his back, then sighing deeply. “Something is wrong, Snowbird.”
“I feel it too.”
His eyes suddenly teared. “I have this . . . terrible feeling. I don’t feel safe here. I don’t feel safe at all. We should have gone north.”
“But we are protected here. The white men, Agent Wynkoop and Major Anthony, both told us to wait here until they get word at Fort Lyon what we should do. I trust them.”
“I also trust them. It is others I do not trust. There is much hatred in this land, Snowbird. And I feel the eyes of the Squaw Killer.”
She shivered and moved closer, moving her arms around him. “Perhaps you are right. But we have done nothing wrong. They cannot harm us as long as we stay here as we are told.”
He sighed deeply, pulling her into his arms, his heart strangely heavy.
James could hardly believe what had taken place—panicked settlers everywhere they went. None cared if it was Sioux or Northern Cheyenne or Southern Cheyenne who had attacked them. Some horses had been stolen, some homes burned, some people killed. Yet dispatches to Fort Lyon verified that Black Kettle’s band remained camped peacefully at Sand Creek. They could not possibly be the culprits.
Yet now here they were, camped above Black Kettle’s quiet, lazy village below, just barely able to make out the smoke curling from the tipi holes from fires that warmed their occupants against the November air. Quietly, very quietly, men positioned the twelve-pounder mountain howitzers. When they had reached Fort Lyon, Chivington had actually talked of collecting scalps, and Major Anthony had told the man he had been waiting for some extra manpower to help him attack the “warring Cheyenne” who he knew were camped along Sand Creek.
Warring Cheyenne? James studied the village below. It could hardly be considered as belonging to a war party. Many tipis, campfires, and meat and hides hanging to dry all pointed to the fact there were women along. Back at Fort Lyon one man had dared to tell Chivington that to attack these particular Indians would be nothing short of murder. Chivington had gone into a tirade, damning the man for defending the Indians, claiming he had come to kill Indians and that it was right and honorable to do so.
James realized he was riding with a crazy man. He couldn’t leave and disgrace himself in front of Willena’s father. He had agreed to come along and to leave would be desertion. He had to stick this out. Surely it wouldn’t be all that bad. A couple of shots from the howitzers and those below would surrender soon enough and that would be that. Not too many lives would be lost. And Chivington and the others could claim another “victory.”
He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. For years he had buried so many of his feelings that now he really didn’t know who he was anymore. He wondered how much longer he could continue this pretense. Drinking had seemed his only comfort lately. If he didn’t stop, he would lose Willena. But if he told her the truth, he would still lose her.
“Get ready,” someone close to him said, shaking him from deep thought. “We’re going to get rid of the lice.”
James rose from where he sat leaning against a rock. He adjusted his saber and climbed onto his horse, putting on his hat and resting a hand on his pistol. His heart pounded painfully, and he felt a lump in his throat so big that he wondered how he was breathing. He could almost see his own father below, almost hear the man talking to him, warning him that he could not forever deny his Indian blood. Here was the moment of truth—here he could finally cut any remaining emotional ties and prove his Indian blood meant nothing.
A howitzer exploded, and seconds later a tipi was ripped apart. There were screams below. The “battle” had begun, a surprise attack at dawn on a peaceful village of perhaps six hundred Cheyenne, mostly women and children—Cheyenne who thought they were safe.
Volunteers around James let out war whoops as more howitzers were fired and Indians began pouring out of their tipis. Men pulled sabers and descended upon the village.
“Grab the children and ran!” Cale shouted to Snowbird as she hurriedly pulled on her tunic. “Hopo! Hopo!”
Snowbird’s eyes were wide with panic. Their strange uneasiness now had an explanation. The big guns! Why! Why were they being attacked?
Another explosion ripped the tipi near their own, and Snowbird screamed while Cale, tying on only his loincloth
, grabbed a tomahawk and an outdated rifle. He shoved his wife and children outside to see bluecoats descending fast. Snowbird picked up the youngest son. She knew what to do. The old ones would help women and children scramble for safety, while all men able to fight would stay behind and fight the enemy, buying time for their loved ones. Women and children must be protected. They were the seed and hope for the future.
But the soldiers were everywhere. Several rode close to Cale, amid thundering hooves, whinnying horses, and screaming women. Dust rolled, and Cale quickly lost sight of Snowbird and his children as he turned to swing his tomahawk at the approaching horse, landing it hard into the animal’s chest. He had wanted to bury it in the rider, but all was confusion. The animal screamed and reared, and the soldier on the animal fired a pistol at Cale, stinging Cale’s shoulder with a glancing blow that sent him reeling backward. The soldier disappeared and Cale quickly got to his feet again and stumbled blindly in a circle for a moment, stunned and dizzy.
Everything from then on seemed to move slowly for him, as though some horrible nightmare. He realized some of these soldiers were not even in uniform. He saw one strike down a woman with his sword, then dismount and cut off her arms while she screamed and pleaded for her life. Then the man split open her dress, ripping open her belly and cutting through her private parts.
Cale was numb with the havoc going on around him. This was not fighting. This was slaughter, wicked, maniacal slaughter. Guns fired all around. The soldiers had come in so fast and with such surprise there was no hope of fighting them. Thinking themselves safe, the Indians had failed to post any scouts. In the distance he could see soldiers riding toward the fleeing women. Snowbird!
Cale ran toward the women, still gripping his tomahawk. He felt a soldier riding down hard, and he turned and fired, grazing the man’s leg. He cried out and turned in another direction, while more men rode toward the women. Cale could see Black Kettle in the distance waving a white cloth as he stood in front of his tipi, the American flag still flying from it. Some of the Cheyenne men were waving their arms and shouting that they were at peace, that they did not want to fight. They were shot down. A few women and warriors gathered around Black Kettle, but more soldiers opened fire on them. Horses and sabers were everywhere, drawing innocent blood, while white men let out war whoops as wild as those of the very Indians they were murdering.
Cale again headed in the direction in which he had seen Snowbird flee with the children, then stopped short at the sight of a warrior covered with stab wounds, stripped, his privates cut off. Nearby a woman lay with her breasts cut off. She was still alive, both her arms broken and bleeding from a saber. Cale shuddered with the horror of it, walking up to her and meeting her wild, pleading eyes. He shot her himself with his pistol.
Cale ran toward a low bank where he knew several of the women and children would be. He was oblivious to his bleeding shoulder. Somehow he had to save Snowbird and his children. But soldiers thundered past him toward where many women were crouched over their children to protect them. Something hit Cale hard from behind and he stumbled forward. Moments later he heard the awful screams as the women and children in hiding were rousted out and indiscriminately murdered and maimed. Many were stripped, their privates cut out, skulls smashed. Cale lay still a moment, hearing more shots, laughter.
“Look what I got,” one man shouted. “I got me a trophy!”
Cale moved his eyes in the direction of the voice to see a man holding up what looked like the reproductive ovaries of an animal. He realized with a lurching stomach they must have come from a woman. The man rode past and Cale struggled to get to his feet.
Snowbird! He stumbled toward the ravine, then fell to his knees, a blow from a gun butt stunning his spine so that he could not quite stay on his legs. A soldier came walking up from the ravine, leading his horse by the reins. Cale noticed him stop and vomit. Cale did not move for a moment, feeling a creeping chill move through his blood at the realization there was something familiar about this man.
After several seconds of vomiting the soldier began walking again, sniffing and wiping at his eyes. The man stopped short when he realized a warrior was watching him. He gripped his saber defensively, yet could not seem to bring himself to use it. He walked slowly closer, while in the distance indiscriminate killing and celebrating continued.
Cale did not know that Black Kettle had finally managed to escape, along with a very few others. Undisciplined Volunteers, still full of whiskey they had drunk during the night before the raid, had killed hundreds of Indians, mostly women and children, in one of the most shameful massacres in the history of the Indian wars. But the two men who faced each other now knew nothing about the historical importance of what had happened this day. The soldier’s eyes widened as he came even closer, standing in front of the Indian.
“Cale!” he groaned, his eyes wild and red.
“You!” Cale growled through gritted teeth. “My . . . Uncle!” He spit the word bitterly at James Sax.
“You don’t . . . understand . . .”
“I understand,” Cale hissed, struggling to his feet. “I understand what you have become! Grandfather’s eyes are on you, James Sax! You will burn in hell and never sleep again for what you have done this day!”
“Sax!” someone shouted. Another man came riding up. “What the hell you doin’, Sax? Carryin’ on a conversation with this degenerate?”
James whirled, pointing his rifle at the man. “Touch him and you’re a dead man!”
The man backed off, his eyes glaring. “You’ve not got much stomach, do you, Sax? I reckon’ somethin’ like this separates the men from the boys. You got some growin’ to do, boy. Chivington won’t like to know that.” The man turned away and trotted his horse past them.
James turned wild eyes to Cale. “Lie down as though you’re dead.”
“I will not!”
“Do it, damn it! They’ll cut you down!”
Cale grudgingly lay down. James took out his pistol and fired, hitting the dirt past Cale’s head. Men turned to look, and the one who had just left them laughed and put up his fist. “I knew you could do it, Sax!”
James shoved his pistol into its holster and looked down at Cale. “I wish . . . we could talk . . .”
“About what, squaw killer?” Cale growled. “I do not know you.”
“I didn’t kill any women or kids. I swear.”
“You were with them. It is the same! And if I did not want to live to find my woman and children, I would kill you now with my bare hands and let them shoot me down. It would be worth it!”
James swallowed, struggling not to break down. “How many . . . children, Cale?”
“My name is Bear Above! And unlike you I am proud of it! My woman and my two sons and little daughter headed for that ravine. If they are dead, you, my loving uncle, will find it hard to have pleasant dreams. Whatever is over there, your nephew’s woman and children are probably among them!”
James made a choking sound. “Cale . . . Bear Above . . . you don’t understand . . . truly. I didn’t kill any women—”
“Do not make excuses, James Sax. James Sax,” he said louder, “son of Caleb Sax! Son of Blue Hawk! How long has it been since you have seen your father? Do you pretend to those scum you call friends that you are lily-white?” He spit into the dirt. “Go! I do not know you! Go back to wherever you came from, to the pretty white woman you probably married, and to your children who do not know they have Indian blood. Go back to your friends and laugh and celebrate the great victory you have had this day!”
“Cale—”
“Leave me before I change my mind and kill you!” Cale interrupted, his voice gruff with emotion. He could hear heavy breathing and again a choking sound.
“Cale, I . . . I didn’t know . . . it would be like this. I didn’t even want to come. And I never thought . . . you would be with them.”
“Does that make it any more right?” Cale turned his face away. “There is someo
ne else here today. Only in spirit. But he is here. And he weeps.”
James felt revulsion and guilt ripple through him in lurching jolts. He turned away and vomited again. He knew very well of whom Cale was speaking. James stumbled toward the others, struggling to keep his composure, his mind reeling with horror so forcefully that his head ached fiercely.
“James!” His father-in-law rode up to him. “We’re leaving now. These Cheyenne won’t be giving us any more trouble.” He waited while James stood hunched over. “James, what the hell is wrong with you?”
James straightened, turning and mounting his horse with great effort, then turning tear-filled eyes to his father-in-law, his face crimson with agony. “No, sir, they won’t give you any more trouble,” he said brokenly. “Not even my nephew.”
Treat frowned, looking his son-in-law over and wondering if he had lost his mind. “What on earth are you talking about?”
James rode closer, gritting his teeth. “This was a camp of women and children, peacefully waiting for orders from our government. You can be proud of what happened here today, dear Father-in-law, but I’m not. And the worst part is that even though I didn’t take part in this slaughter the way you and the others did, I’m more guilty than any of you. You keep going with Chivington. I’m through!”
“James! Where are you going?” Treat demanded.
“I’m going home. You can stay and ride with the Squaw Killer if you want. I’m going home to Willena”—he whirled his horse—“to tell her her children have Indian blood!” He grinned almost like a madman.
Others turned to stare at him in shock, most thinking the attack had somehow affected his mind. Perhaps he had taken a blow to the head. He would get over it in time.
Treat watched James disappear, then turned his eyes to a rise where John Chivington sat tall and stern in his saddle, the proud “victor.” Treat did not share the feeling of victory the others did, nor had he taken part in the maiming and degrading of the women. He agreed something had to be done about the Indians, but this was not what he had in mind. He was accustomed to fighting with honor. There was no honor here today.
Destiny's Dawn Page 41
