Of twenty warriors who’d left that morning less than half were with the pack by nightfall; the rest were strung out over the trail, effectively out of the hunt. But of those remaining, none would falter. The pace now slowed out of necessity of darkness and fatigue. They rested briefly where the trail met the Cimarron before pressing on, veering with the river northwest. Nor had the enemy crossed the river, but ridden thereby, apparently seeking cover from the biting wind.
The true reason, however, was that this course bore directly towards the new hide center sprung up near Ft. Dodge, Butcher Joe’s destination. He planned to ford the river once it looped safely back into Kansas, then follow Bluff Creek north and drive the goods to market. Meanwhile, weighed down by equipage and further slowed by the herd, the gang couldn’t hope to outdistance a dogged pursuer; but if overtaken, they were confident their superior firepower could hold the heathen at bay.
Shortly before dawn Running Hawk spotted the massed herd cresting a distant hill, and on the far plain beyond viewed the faint line of the Cimarron curving west. To Dog That Smiles he suggested that they ride north under cover of the river, push their ponies hard to outflank the enemy, then wait in ambush at the anticipated crossing and strike as one, stampeding the horses south. Dog That Smiles agreed to the plan—”Brothers, it is a good day to die”—adding only that Running Hawk and Wears The Wind should press on behind the herd, even allow themselves to be seen and so divert the enemy’s attention from the coming blow. Running Hawk saw teeth in the Dog’s cunning; it gained them a further edge.
Numbness and fatigue fell away as their blood raced hot in expectation. Each warrior quickly prepared for battle: they painted their faces red with black stripes across the chin and brow and down both cheeks; they added lightning streaks to their ponies’ necks and shoulders to bestow swiftness and deflect bullets. Then they shared the pipe that the Dog carried, smoking to sky, earth, and Nivstanivo, offering breath and prayer so that Heammawihio would not deny them victory. Thus fortified, they set out; six rode north behind the Dog, while two followed hard on the heels of the enemy.
By mid-morning Butcher Joe noted the trailing pair and detailed a man with a long-range Sharp’s to send them packing. A mistake; two snipers may have succeeded, one loading while the other fired, but the warriors defied the lone marksman with skilled maneuver and superb horsemanship. Heedless of his fire, they crisscrossed in an angling approach, bounding on and off their ponies, offering a fleeting array of targets. Addled by their gambit, he fired again and again to no effect. And in the fragile moments he spared to reload they caught him in the crossfire of their Spencer repeaters, killing him outright. They took his weapons, his scalp, and rode on.
Their war-cries didn’t carry against the wind. But the Sharp’s last boom followed promptly by reports of a distinctly different caliber, then long silence, unnerved the entire gang. They squirmed in their saddles, glancing back, searching for sign of their comrade. Their suspense was short-lived. The two warriors soon reappeared, trailing at half a mile, hurling blood-taunts, the scalp raised high on their lance.
Anxious to cross the river and leave Indian Territory altogether, the Krippit gang drove the herd with added zeal. As they neared the crossing the trailing pair edged ever closer, threatening; but fearful of igniting a stampede, the thieves held their fire. The horses pricked their ears, scenting water, their thirst heightened by the morning’s haste and other familiar scents carried on the wind.
Behind the willow brush lining the river waited seven warriors, well hidden, spaced at horse-length intervals. Dog That Smiles occupied the midpoint; at his signal the others would break cover at full gallop, hit the surprised enemy, and drive the panicked herd south. Motionless, he waited, revolver held ready as the enemy moved within range.
In the next breath Running Hawk and Wears The Wind mounted an inspired feint from the rear, exposing themselves to draw fire. Unlike their earlier ploy, they split in opposite directions, pressing hard on either flank: Wears The Wind to the west while Running Hawk rode east, clearing the way for the expected stampede. Horses raised their heads and nickered, answered by others as a wave of excitement rippled through the herd. The thieves could no longer ignore the threat; they fired on the warriors at 75 yards—the greater volley directed east. A bullet shattered Storm Cloud’s left foreleg and Running Hawk followed to the ground.
As the moment chose and events played, the Dog leveled his revolver and fired. The lead rider pitched from his saddle with the mass of his brains blown away as the warriors broke cover—”Haih! Haih! Haih!” Horses reared and skittished, turning before the mad onslaught of shouts, curses, and war-whoops, hot lead and smoke. One warrior caught the blast of a fuke, cut down as the others entered the swirling mass of the herd; then all fled with the frightened horses towards the open country south, urging them on with quirts and yelps. The Dog drew rein to join Wears The Wind who continued to fire on the enemy.
The thieves, utterly staggered and stripped by the whirlwind attack, retreated in confusion to the river. There they regrouped and circled like a pack of feverish wolves to reap vengeance on the lone warrior who’d dropped two of their number while firing from behind his fallen horse.
Storm Cloud’s head lay at a grotesque angle, his neck broken in the fall. Running Hawk had jumped clear and staked himself, driving his lance through a long sash tied at his waist, determined to fight to the death like his father and assure the day’s victory and the band’s survival.
The Krippit Gang now numbered nine, including Butcher Joe. He ordered the remaining eight to direct their fire on the lone warrior while he worked to the flank. A hail of bullets struck close by, forcing Running Hawk to the ground and his keen eyes missed the shadowed form moving through the broken line of trees.
Dog That Smiles sniffed glory, tasted its sweet breath, already basking in its first rays as the clouds acknowledged their victory and parted to the midday sun. Even in his greed he could share such glory, but he would not have it overshadowed by Running Hawks’ more glorious death. The Dog’s eyes narrowed like the slits in the coyote pelt that crowned his head, then gleamed, scenting even greater glory. Awoke In Winter had judged correctly, the Dog was a warrior of merit, like Okom, shrewd and tenacious. As leader of the war party his foremost duty beyond regaining the horses was to preserve the life of each who had bent to his will. The warrior killed in the initial attack lay beyond succor. But not so the other. Again, the Dog sniffed a plan.
“Brother, show the Veho how you ride. Go! Sing your name!” he said.
Wears The Wind readily agreed and rode forth once more to draw their fire. He swung aside his pony’s neck and jeered the Vehos, casting insults while the Dog bore through to reach their stranded brother.
A white-robed hunter, traveling these past weeks along the Dead Line, caught in an aimless drift and called to the sound of battle, now witnessed from a low ridge north of the river. Caspion saw the herd of ponies racing away in the distance, and in the near foreground a beleaguered warrior, strangely familiar, crouched behind a dead horse; he further recognized the mounted warrior who presently unstaked the other, spun his pony, and offered his hand. In that instant he felt the lash of the Thunder Bow echo through his flesh, and directly below observed a tall stalking figure, like Lincoln’s haunting ghost, perch his rifle in the fork of a tree and take aim.
With the quick snap of his rifle Caspion likewise took aim and fired. Butcher Joe’s shot went high as he clutched his leg and fell. In that instant Running Hawk clasped the Dog’s hand, would not scorn such courage and leapt with joy behind the rider to make his escape. Hearing shots from yet another direction, he glanced to the ridge and through a puff of smoke glimpsed the white-robed hunter twirl his rifle back into its scabbard then rein away on a piebald black; and in the tree line below he saw the tall man-wolf gnawing his wound, snapping the air, snarling angrily as the Spirit Hunter disappeared, trailed by a mule and a wolf-dog pup. Butcher Joe would walk with a painful
limp the rest of his days, the image of the selfsame hunter fixed in his mind.
Caspion had simply reacted and played his hand, prompted by a vague hunch in answer to the scene. And he’d guessed rightly that those prowling along the river were horse thieves; though heavily armed, none were equipped for hunting. So he’d lamed the one and let the others be. Certain of very little these days, cursed by shifting loyalties since leaving Alice and Hays, he simply followed the will of the robe. Certain only that he owed the Thunder Bow warrior his life; a debt he could not lightly weigh.
A debt Running Hawk felt twice over. When he’d spoken with Broken Wing Bird of casting glory to her brother, he’d never dreamed that such glory would include his life beholden to and in a sense held by the Dog. Now beholden to the Spirit Hunter as well; strangely allied with a Veho, yet wary of his own. But he embraced the contradiction as he rode behind the Dog. In the glow of victory he saw the clouds part and lift before the blue sky space. And a vision of infinite white flooded his eyes.
XI. Promise Of Spring
Each day the wind blew with greater warmth and fragrance. Soon spring awoke in full chorus. Birds returned like blossoms flitting brightly through the trees, and overnight the virginal green, the soft down of new growth, feathered out over the hills and valleys.
Laughing children wielding curved oak sticks scampered after a rawhide ball to rally in the open space along the stream for a game of shinny. A small spotted dog, trotting close by, anxious to join in the play, made a rush for the ball and caught a sharp blow from a shinny stick that sent him yelping; though he wisely silenced his cry before the even sharper blow of a war-club ended his days. Having survived the winter, a dog could possibly live to see another, unless it yielded to the incautious urge to bark once too often. A juicy dog was always a welcome addition to a stew. Already, pots were being stirred by grandmothers in anticipation of the evening feast to celebrate the union of Father Sky and Mother Earth that bore their sacred child, the Living Spirit; and attendant the feast they’d hold a Scalp Dance to honor the warriors’ recent victory and initiate a night-long series of courtship, or mating dances, to culminate shortly before dawn with the enticing Buffalo Romp Dance. A day of renewal, honor, and matchmaking.
And lately, the warrior held in highest regard was Dog That Smiles. Truly, without the Dog’s incisiveness they would have floundered in their grief over Little Wolf, as if caught in deep snow, and critically delayed their pursuit. One more day, all would have been lost. To honor his leadership he was granted the lone scalp lifted by Wears The Wind. In the glow of tribal esteem the Dog restrained his churlish nature and cast praise on his fellows, particularly Running Hawk, to whom he gave a new horse to commend his courage and repay the loss of Storm Cloud. A deed of admirable generosity, for it was a magnificent pure-white stallion taken in a winter raid. Running Hawk named him Cloud Walker and fastened an antelope horn around his neck to enhance his unrivaled speed and endurance. All animosity had seemed to pass with the death of Little Wolf, and everyone prepared for a rebirth in the life of the People.
While the men rode out that morning to burn the dead grass from the surrounding hills and so renew the prairie, a group of women joyfully set forth in search of the tasty pomme blanche, or Indian turnip. Each carried a long dibble stick with a fire-hardened point at one end for uprooting the desired fruit. The older women also carried a short blunt-ended stick to support their weight as they knelt to the labor of harvest. But the maidens, as yet unburdened by age and childbearing, their bodies fresh and buoyant with promise, danced to the task with playful ease. Though the more direct, conserved efforts of the old typically outstripped the frolicsome maidens, the old ones smiled, tolerant of beauteous youth and its brief joy, for who knew what trials awaited.
The hairy-leafed cinnamon fern grew blanketing a gentle slope a short distance downstream. Its root was a staple of their diet, whether eaten raw when freshly dug, or later boiled, or sliced thin and dried—the powder used throughout the year to thicken stews. More flavorful still was the smaller red turnip. Naturally, all were delighted to discover its sweet bloom prevalent in the area; especially the maidens who fairly lusted after its tender fruit.
Falling Shadow was the most boldly provocative of the maidens, a liberty taken in no small part due to her status as the Chief’s daughter: impish, beautifully fleshed, a body wholly in the Cheyenne ideal that would one day match her mother’s ample roundness, the oft-sullen but once lovely White Deer. Yea, every movement and posture signaled her eagerness to initiate the ceremony that denotes womanhood. Examining an extra-large root, Falling Shadow made an insinuating glance to Broken Wing Bird. The latter blushed; yes, she also yearned, but such was not mentioned or proper to display. Still, she was amused by Falling Shadow, even admired her lack of customary reserve.
But Broken Wing Bird closely guarded her own desires, maintained the bearing requisite of a maiden; modesty, always her chief allurement. A true beauty, her supple height would never fatten through the years. She could easily run alongside any warrior; and none dared test her endurance against their own and risk failing. To watch her run called to mind the myth of Slim Walking Woman—swiftest of the buffalo—who narrowly lost in the Great Race to Magpie, allied with man from the earliest time. In consequence of the victory, man was allowed to eat the flesh of the buffalo. And who would risk a rematch and upset a balance, a law long favoring man. To race against Broken Wing Bird sorely tempted fate.
Observing her incorrigible friend, Broken Wing Bird shook her head hopelessly.
“Remember the dance tonight, Falling Shadow,” she said as the other dreamily chewed; “Eat too many sweet roots and your belly will sicken.”
“Ah, but eat the sweetest root of all,” she answered, laughing, “it will fatten with child.” Broken Wing Bird threw a handful of grass to shush her, then covered her own mouth, giggling.
The older women watched, gossiping among themselves, remembering well.
“I envy their liveliness,” said Yellow Calf, digging beside Willow That Sings and White Deer. “And the first taste of love that awaits them.”
“May it be sweet,” Willow That Sings smiled, “sweet as the red turnip. May it preserve its flavor through many winters and bear us grandchildren for many springs to come.”
“For some it will be sweet,” added White Deer dryly. “Others will taste the bitterness of the acorn.” Time alone had not soured her soft beauty. Black Hand’s passion was abrupt, never tender; but worse, of late he minded her not at all.
Quietly aware of the Dog’s proposal to Black Hand, the women dared hope, each for reasons of their own, that the arrangement had lapsed and died over winter. They all longed for tribal harmony, and partisan to their own child, each desired nearly the same end. Willow That Sings was most torn; although proud of her son’s achievement and wishing for him the mate he desired, foremost she knew that her daughter Broken Wing Bird belonged with Running Hawk, not with an old man looking to rekindle his youth, a shameful thought. But the Dog’s jealousy of Running Hawk seemed much appeased, so her anxiety lessened. And aside from Wears The Wind, who stood distant to her heart, none was more deserving of the Chief’s daughter than Dog That Smiles.
But Yellow Calf’s concern for her son only increased as evening neared. He and Broken Wing Bird were as the Sky and Earth—matched since childhood, chosen by the spirit. Such love fed all the People. She spoke of this to Willow That Sings.
“We all admire your son, and Dog That Smiles showed further worthiness by his excellent gift to Running Hawk. My son rides like a vision on Cloud Walker. He only awaits your daughter to complete the sacred circle. Will your son listen to their hearts that have always beat as one when he drums her away at dawn?”
Willow That Sings leaned to her friend. “Your hope is mine, Yellow Calf. As the moon is want to wax and wane, Broken Wing Bird was meant to bear his children.”
They exchanged knowing smiles in the conspiracy of life. And though unsmi
ling, their hope was shared by White Deer, fretful mostly of herself; she knew that Falling Shadow, much like her father, would ultimately act to satisfy her own desires.
Moving further up the slope, the two maidens searched out another place to dig. Along the way Falling Shadow ceased her bantering and fell silent. Broken Wing Bird noticed her unusually earnest look.
“Why the clouded face?” she asked lightheartedly. “Does your stomach speak of too many turnips?” But the effort failed to revive her friend’s spirit.
“Have you heard?” Falling Shadow now said, facing the other. “My father has designs for you. And your brother for me.” At these words Broken Wing Bird lowered her eyes, more out of dread than modesty. “Listen,” Falling Shadow continued, “they spoke of this only once…at winter’s first breath. Nothing was decided. Let us hope their hearts have heard the truth and that such foolish words are forgotten. But my father still watches you. And I feel the Dog’s eyes on me. Truly, he is a great warrior, but his smile is more a scowl. I will have Wears The Wind and no other. Make plans, Broken Wing Bird…should your brother dishonor your heart and decide against you.”
“Surely he would not!” cried Broken Wing Bird in protest; yet her desperate eyes recalled her brother stomping the dove’s nest long ago.
“Surely you are right,” Falling Shadow echoed softly. But make plans, thought the impulsive one. Make plans.
Numerous fires raged through the hills beyond the valley, watched closely by the men setting back-fires when necessary to arrest or divert the hungry flames. Soon, the blackened land would blush green in rich pasturage. The smoke carried on the wind wafting through the valley, and bore a special flavor distilled over the distance. The women eagerly inhaled its dark aroma as if the fires were a blossom and the smoke its perfume, a strong male scent to whet the juices and quicken the succulent grass. Ah, and to open before his dancing spear.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 12
