“Nohetto,” he said, scanning the rest of them, then looking once more at Abbie. He jerked his horse around to face Wolf’s Blood. “Hai!” he barked, whipping his horse with the reins and kicking its sides so that his mount went into an immediate gallop. Wolf’s Blood turned his horse in a circle, his eyes resting on Sonora, then on his mother.
“This time I make the promise,” he told Abbie. “I will return, my mother.”
She tried to smile but could not. The man took off after his father, and Abbie watched through tears as they both disappeared over a rise. She swallowed and breathed deeply then, turning to her grandchildren.
“Doesn’t your grandfather look grand on a horse?” she said, holding her chin proudly. “You’ll not find a better rider in all of Colorado.” She looked at Margaret then, walking up and hugging her daughter. “Come, Margaret. We have chores to do.”
The Cheyenne flight north became a running battle. The soldiers with whom Zeke and Wolf’s Blood rode and for whom they helped track the Cheyenne, were only a fraction of the number of soldiers who were after the fleeing Indians. Soldiers moved out from all directions: from Forts Wallace, Hays, Dodge, Kearney, and others. Soldiers rode the railroads, watching and waiting, ready to charge off the train and follow if the Indians were spotted. Up to thirteen thousand soldiers and volunteers stalked the Indians without letup, so that Little Wolf and Dull Knife and their people had no time to rest.
The Indians were desperate. They must get to their beloved Black Hills. They kept to the roughest country they could find, so that the soldiers could not get to them with their wagons that carried the big guns. Several times the soldiers caught up with them, often picking off the straggling old people and children. But the majority of the fleeing Indians always managed to evade their pursuers, craftily sneaking right through the ignorant bluecoats. Several times Zeke warned the troops he led not to fire—that they should let him talk to the Cheyenne leaders and see if he couldn’t get them to surrender. But the soldiers would have none of it, and as they followed the Cheyenne through Kansas and Nebraska, Zeke grew less and less desirous of helping the soldiers. Thousands were tracking a pitiful handful of desperate Cheyenne, who wanted to harm no one, who wanted only to go home. The callousness and lack of understanding on the part of their pursuers was heartbreaking. Zeke knew the job was even more difficult for Wolf’s Blood. He had to constantly remind the boy that he must return to his mother, that he must not let her down. If Wolf’s Blood turned on the soldiers, he would be killed, and that would be too much for Abbie to bear.
“The time will come when it is a good day for you to die,” Zeke told his son one night over a quiet campfire. “You are young. Winter is coming, and already I feel the pain creeping into my bones and joints. This is my time, Wolf’s Blood. Let me have my time. You must live and go home to your mother.”
They searched through September and October, and the nights grew very cold. Each day Wolf’s Blood could see the agony building in his father’s body, as he strained just to rise in the mornings, ignoring fierce pain in his hips when he rode.
Zeke knew that the Indians were in a bad way by now. They had not had time to rest, nor even to hunt for food. Surely their clothing was getting ragged, and some were starving. His worries were correct, for among the Indians there was much despair. The old ones were weak, the children suffering from lack of rest and food. By head count, thirty-four were missing, either killed as stragglers, or having run off in confused battles and making their own way north. The two greatest chiefs among them, Dull Knife and Little Wolf, differed in opinion about what they should do. Little Wolf wanted to go all the way into the Montana Territory to the Tongue and Powder Rivers—true Northern Cheyenne country—where they could live like real Indians again. Dull Knife did not think they could make it that far, and suggested they go to Red Cloud’s Agency in the Black Hills to see if Red Cloud would help them, give them shelter and food, and convince the government to let them stay there. After all, the Northern Cheyenne had helped the Sioux many times in their fighting. Red Cloud should help them now.
The final decision was to split up. Those who wished to follow Little Wolf all the way north—about fifty men, forty women, and roughly thirty-eight children—would break off from Dull Knife and the one hundred-fifty who would go with him to the Red Cloud Agency. It was a sad parting for the two chiefs and their people. Wild Hog and Left Hand went with Dull Knife.
It was late October when Dull Knife and his followers were caught in a heavy snowstorm that left wet snow clinging to their horses and their own bodies, blinding their eyes and slowing their progress. Then out of the swirling white storm appeared soldiers—all around them. Zeke was among them, having helped track them to this spot in spite of the blizzard, and in spite of a grueling pain that ripped through him now with all its cruel fierceness. The weather had brought forth the worst of the arthritis, and when he dismounted at night he could barely walk. He would cling to the horse’s neck until he was able to move his legs, not wanting the other men to see his son helping him, not wanting to look weak in front of any of them. He had fought the pain and kept tracking the Indians, and now they had finally caught up to Dull Knife.
There was nothing for Dull Knife to do but surrender. He begged to be taken to Fort Robinson, where he could be with Red Cloud and the Sioux. The soldiers informed him that Red Cloud was no longer there, that the Sioux had been moved farther north. The leader, Captain John B. Johnson, told Dull Knife he would take him to Fort Robinson, where the Cheyenne could get food and shelter. Dull Knife objected, not trusting the soldiers. Zeke did not fully trust them either, but by nightfall Dull Knife gave in, for his people were freezing and starving. They would go to Fort Robinson, but they made it clear they wanted to keep going north to Red Cloud once they got their strength back. The soldiers promised they could do so.
They headed toward the fort. Zeke lifted three little ones onto his own horse, covering them with blankets and walking himself, in spite of the relentless pain. When they made camp that night, Zeke sensed the uneasiness among the Cheyenne. They did not trust the soldiers, and neither did Zeke or Wolf’s Blood. Zeke sat and smoked beside a campfire, unable to sleep. He heard the soft whistle that was his son’s signal, and he frowned with concern. The young man wanted to speak alone with him, away from the campfire around which sat a few soldiers. Zeke said nothing, getting to his feet with difficulty and walking toward the sound of the whistle. Wolf’s Blood loomed out of the darkness, taking his father’s arm and leading him away from the others.
“I think you will get your wish, my father,” he told the man.
“What do you mean?”
“I went inside one tipi, to check on some of the children. The woman in there looked up in surprise, for she was pushing a gun barrel under her dress to hide it. I told her not to be afraid, that I was really on their side, and she showed me her necklace, decorated not only with beads, but with gun springs, locks, and pins. She had cartridges tied onto her moccasins like decorations.”
Zeke frowned and threw down his cigarette, stepping it out. “They’re taking apart guns?”
“Yes. They are hiding them in pieces, wearing them as ornaments to fool the soldiers. They think the soldier leader will tell them to give up all weapons. When they do, they will turn in only a few bows and arrows and a few broken guns. Then later, if they are imprisoned, they will have guns that they can put back together and use against the soldiers.”
Zeke grinned a little. “By God I think it could work. If anyone can make it work, the Cheyenne can.”
“Of course they can!” The boy sobered. “Father, what do you think will happen? Will they help the Cheyenne, or imprison them?”
Zeke sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve seen to much abuse to think they’ll really help them, Wolf’s Blood. They’re pissed about the fact that Dull Knife even made it this far, evading so many soldiers all the way. And Little Wolf has apparently still managed to avoid being caught. They mig
ht help them at first, but I have my doubts any promises will be kept.”
Wolf’s Blood put a hand on his father’s arm. “And if they choose to fight?”
Zeke put a hand over his son’s. “If they fight, I will fight with them, Wolf’s Blood. Don’t try to help me. Promise me you’ll do nothing to help me or to go against the soldiers.”
The boy swallowed. “I promise, my father.”
Zeke patted his hand. “It’s bad this time, Wolf’s Blood. As bad as it’s ever been. How I’m managing to ride I don’t even know myself. But I’ll not go on like this. The day is soon coming when I’ll never get out of bed again. I won’t let that day get here. Every bone and joint in my body screams to be put out of its misery. Understand me, Wolf’s Blood. Help me die honorably.”
The boy suddenly embraced him in the darkness. “I love you, Father. I will help you. But if you die, part of me also dies.”
“It is always so when a loved one dies. But there are other loved ones left behind who need us. My Abbie needs you, Wolf’s Blood. You know what to do after I am gone. Go to Dan. He’ll help you get permission.”
“I will go to him,” Wolf’s Blood promised. They embraced tightly. The son was to take his father to a very high place in the mountains, where he would build a platform for his final resting place—close to the heavens, where eagles fly.
Zeke left him then, walking painfully slow. Wolf’s Blood watched him. Yes, it was a good time. The man he watched now was not the man he had always known, tall and strong and nimble, quick and graceful. The disease raged within him, claiming him slowly and painfully.
The Cheyenne arrived at Fort Robinson, having already been disarmed as they had suspected would be done, but carrying several weapons on their person in the form of jewelry or hidden in clothing. If not for the sadness of the occasion and their starving, frozen bodies, the hidden weapons would have been laughable, a fine joke on the soldiers. But the Cheyenne had no laughter left in them. They were taken to a log barracks built to hold seventy-five men; but all one hundred fifty Indians were crowded into it. The soldiers at Fort Robinson, under Major Caleb Carlton, were friendly toward them, giving them blankets and food and medicine. But Carlton could make no promises about letting them go farther north and join Red Cloud. They were told the soldiers must wait for orders from Washington.
The waiting became difficult, stretching through November, December. The Cheyenne became impatient, and Zeke became almost immobile. He stayed in the log shelter with them, insisting he could help them more, perhaps convince them still to return south and give up their pleadings to go to Red Cloud. But Wolf’s Blood knew he only wanted to be near the People, his first love after all.
Wolf’s Blood waited with a heavy heart. He asked the soldiers to try to get word to Dan Monroe, his uncle, who had also been moved farther north and was not at Fort Robinson any longer. If only Dan could come and be here with Zeke. The soldiers said they would send word, but Dan was off on patrol scouting for whiskey and gunrunners on the Red Cloud reservation, and would be difficult to locate.
The Cheyenne were given permission to do a little hunting near the fort—a few men at a time—while they waited. But game was scarce, and their hearts were not in it. Once tipis surrounded Fort Robinson. Now the land was barren—of buffalo and Indian alike.
Then Major Carlton left, and things changed. An ominous mood hung over the fort, brought on by the new commander, Captain Henry W. Wessells, a man who cared little for Indians and was nervous and anxious to please Washington. The man constantly watched the Cheyenne, often paying unannounced visits to the log barracks where they were kept, his eyes darting around suspiciously. Finally Red Cloud himself was brought to the fort to talk to the Cheyenne. His words brought great sadness to their hearts, for he could offer no help. He would gladly welcome them to the Sioux villages, but the all-powerful Father in Washington would not allow it. The white people were so numerous that they “filled the whole earth,” and the Indian could no longer fight against what the white man told them to do.
Zeke listened with great sadness to the poignant conversation between the Sioux leader and the hopeful Cheyenne. The once-proud and fierce warrior Red Cloud, who had led the Sioux and Northern Cheyenne in victory over the Powder River country just ten years earlier, was now a sad and broken man. It was rumored he was a prisoner on his own reservation. He warned the Cheyenne they must be very careful and do everything the white soldiers told them to do or it would be bad for them. The Sioux leader’s words broke Zeke’s heart, for the man’s pride and power were gone. The soldiers, the miners, the men in power in Washington, the settlers, the railroads, the buffalo hunters—all had worked together to break the Indian’s back, to bring the red men of the plains to their knees.
Zeke turned away, unable to even watch Red Cloud, fighting an urge to cry out and charge forward and kill every soldier he could find. But his ravaged body would not even allow him to do that. He rested his hand on the infamous knife, the knife he had wielded against his enemies with such force and skill over the years, often fighting several men at once. It would forever rest in its sheath now, its blade tasting blood no more. Watching Red Cloud was his answer—the finality he needed. They were broken, and his sorrow over that loss was unbearable. He would not live to watch the final remnants be swept up and thrown out like so much trash.
Red Cloud had done all he could do for them. He was taken away, and Dull Knife approached Captain Wessells again with a final plea, telling him that if they were not allowed to go north and join the Sioux, the Cheyenne would butcher one another with their own knives before going back south.
Chapter Twenty
It was early in January in 1879 when the orders finally came from Washington. The Indians must go back south, and immediately. Zeke could barely believe the words, nor could Wolf’s Blood. It was the dead of winter. To send the pitiful bunch of Cheyenne back south on a two-to three-month march would be the same as lining them up before a firing squad. Several days after the order was issued, when Wolf’s Blood was allowed into the barracks to ask his father what to do, he found Zeke lying in a corner on a blanket, unable to rise.
“Father!” the boy groaned.
Zeke looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “I am … only saving my strength, son, for my last … battle.”
“Father, the soldiers want to send them back—in the dead of winter!”
Zeke took his hand, and Wolf’s Blood noticed with great sorrow that his father’s hands were so gnarled they looked deformed, the joints swollen to ugly proportions.
“They will not … go back,” he told his son quietly. “Dull Knife … has told them so. They will die first. And so … will I, Wolf’s Blood. I will not go back to … your mother … and have her see me this way. She must remember the Zeke she knew … not this one. I want you to remember that Zeke also. Go now. Go back with the soldiers, and remember … to stay on their side … no matter what happens. Promise me, Wolf’s Blood.”
Tears were suddenly visible in the boy’s eyes, spilling down his cheeks. “What … shall I do, Father?” he asked in a strained voice. “I am Indian, too.”
“You will go home … and you will let life take its course, Wolf’s Blood. You will go to Sonora … and your children … and your mother. And you will make me proud. Go now. And remember your promise … about taking me to the mountains.”
The boy sniffed. “I … have tried to find your brother Dan. They say he is coming soon. He is coming from Fort Keogh. He has sent word … that it is impossible to bring Swift Arrow … for he lives alone in the hills and refuses to come to the Red Cloud reservation. They have … given up trying to find him. Dan is not even at the reservation. Fort Keogh is much farther north, in Montana. I fear he will not get here in time, my father.”
Zeke closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter any more, Wolf’s Blood. Go now. Please go.”
The young man cried openly then, unable to stop himself. He bent low and hugged his father. �
�I love you,” he sobbed at the man’s ear.
“And I love you, my son,” Zeke replied, stroking the boy’s hair. “You have been … an honorable son … and I have loved you as my own life. You are my life … and Abbie’s. Our seed created the best of both our worlds. I will be with you always, Wolf’s Blood, for my blood runs in your veins.”
The boy pulled away, choking in a sob, gently touching his father’s forehead. “God be with you,” he whispered. He rose and ran out of the barracks. He kept running, out into the darkness, where he fell to the ground and wept. There would be no sleep for him that night.
At Dull Knife’s refusal to return south, the soldiers came to the barracks the next day and put chains and iron bars over the doors. A constant guard was put around the building. There would be no more food and no more warmth, for no fuel would be provided for the heating stove. Day moved into night, and it was bitterly cold. Women and children shivered, but they helped the men begin to silently put together the many pieces of guns they had managed to hide from the soldiers. One woman helped Zeke rise. He drew on that special inner strength that his Indian blood gave him, determined he would help these Cheyenne escape and hoping to die in the attempt. The woman rubbed his hands for him, blowing on them to bring warmth. The Indians worked silently and diligently, with only the bright winter moon for light. This would be their last great battle.
Men painted their faces, while women piled anything they could get their hands on under the windows through which they would all make their escape. And in the darkness, they made their move.
Windows were suddenly battered outward, sashes and all. Warriors and women began pouring out, quickly killing or injuring the guards with the guns they had put back together. There was almost instant gunfire from all directions, as soldiers came dashing out of their barracks, leaping onto horses in only their underwear and riding after fleeing Indians.
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