Death Chant

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  When Matthew Hanchon returned to the Cheyenne people after being raised by settlers, he did not find the acceptance he sought. For the Cheyenne could not fully trust anyone raised in the ways of the white man. Forced to prove his loyalty, Matthew faced the greatest challenge he had ever known. And when the death chant arose, he knew if he failed he would not die alone.

  DEATH CHANT

  CHEYENNE 2

  By Judd Cole

  First published by Leisure Books in 1992

  Copyright © 1992, 2014 by Judd Cole

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2014

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.Cover image © 2014 by Kirby Jonas — Visit Kirby here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Prologue

  In 1840, when the new grass was well up, Running Antelope and thirty braves rode out from their camp on the Powder River. The great Northern Cheyenne chief was troubled by the vast number of Bluecoats and gold-hungry whites swarming into the best hunting grounds of the sacred Cheyenne homeland.

  Running Antelope was not leading his braves into battle, but to an important council with their kinsmen the Southern Cheyenne, who lived below the Platte River. His wife Lotus Petal and their infant son accompanied him in order to visit her southern clan.

  Running Antelope’s band flew a white truce flag. Nonetheless, a company of Bluecoat pony soldiers ambushed them in a surprise pincers movement near the North Platte. Badly outnumbered, the Cheyenne with their bows, lances, clubs and single-shot muzzle-loaders were no match for the Bluecoats’ big-thundering wagon guns and percussion-cap carbines. Soon Running Antelope, Lotus Petal, and all thirty braves lay dead or dying. The lone survivor was the squalling infant.

  His life spared by the Bluecoat lieutenant in charge, the baby was taken back to the river bend settlement of Bighorn Falls near Fort Bates. The barren wife of John Hanchon, owner of the town’s mercantile store, fell in love with the young orphan and insisted on raising him as their own son.

  The Hanchons named him Matthew. He grew into a tall, broad-shouldered youth with the pronounced cheekbones and even, pleasing features that had earned the Cheyenne the name of the Beautiful People among their red brothers. Matthew’s parents were good to him, and despite occasional hostile glances and remarks from some white men, he felt accepted in his limited world.

  Then came his sixteenth year and a forbidden love for Kristen, the daughter of Hiram Steele, the wealthiest rancher in Bighorn Falls. Discovered in their secret meeting place, Matthew was savagely beaten by Steele’s hired hand Boone Wilson, then driven off Steele’s property under threat of death if he returned. Then a young officer from Fort Bates, eager to win Kristen’s hand in marriage, threatened to ruin John Hanchon’s profitable contract with the fort if Matthew did not clear out for good.

  Saddened, but determined to find a place where he fit in, the youth left his home and white parents forever. He rode north into the hostile Cheyenne country of the Southeastern Montana Territory. Matthew was soon captured by Cheyenne braves. His white man’s language, customs, and clothing made the Indians suspect he was a spy for their enemies.

  He was brutally tortured. Only the intervention of old Arrow Keeper, the tribal medicine man, spared him from death at the point of a knife. Arrow Keeper had recently experienced a powerful vision at sacred Medicine Lake. The vision prophesied the arrival of the son of a great chief who would eventually lead his people in victorious battle against their enemies. The new leader would bear the mark of a warrior—a mulberry-colored arrowhead. When Arrow Keeper found that birthmark buried past the captured youth’s hairline, he knew the vision had been fulfilled. But, fearing that this knowledge might cause great trouble in the tribe, Arrow Keeper kept it to himself, choosing to reveal the truth of his vision only after the newcomer had proven himself.

  At Arrow Keeper’s urging, the suspected spy’s life was spared and he was allowed to join the tribe’s young males, who were training to become warriors. Renamed Touch the Sky by Arrow Keeper, the youth at first had only one ally besides the old medicine man: Honey Eater, the beautiful young daughter of Chief Yellow Bear. The rest of the tribe hated him, especially a warrior named Black Elk and his bitter young cousin, a warrior-in-training called Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.

  A surprise Pawnee attack destroyed the Cheyenne village and killed many warriors. Black Elk, whose love for Honey Eater made him resent her secret glances at Touch the Sky, was ordered to quickly train the younger males for battle. The tribe was determined to achieve revenge against their Pawnee attackers.

  From the beginning Touch the Sky was tormented and humiliated. He could do nothing right: he could not ride bareback, throw a spiked tomahawk, hunt buffalo, or even sharpen a knife Indian fashion. Despite those failures, his courage and determination to succeed eventually won the friendship of a warrior-in-training named Little Horse. But Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had vowed to kill Touch the Sky, and he was always watching for an opportunity to make good on his oath.

  Soon a huge band of Pawnee warriors again encircled the village, preparing to annihilate the badly outnumbered Cheyenne. Touch the Sky, knowing the lopsided battle would surely destroy the tribe, remembered something important from his life among the white men: a Bluecoat soldier had once explained to him that the Pawnee believed that insane white people were powerful bad medicine.

  Through great skill, cunning, and bravery, he and Little Horse applied their recent training and infiltrated the Pawnee lines. They raced desperately toward Bighorn Falls and the home of Touch the Sky’s boyhood friend Corey Robinson. After Corey agreed to help save the tribe, Touch the Sky and the others hurried back to the camp, praying they would not arrive too late.

  Dawn broke over the Tongue River and the Pawnee attack began. But Corey Robinson, his naked white body streaked with redbank clay, suddenly appeared, capering like a lunatic and loudly spouting gospel. Shrieking in fear, the Pawnee showed the white feather and fled.

  Touch the Sky had saved his tribe and was honored in a special council. But as Arrow Keeper cautioned him, it was white man’s cunning he displayed, not the true Cheyenne way. And now more than ever Black Elk and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling hated Touch the Sky.

  Though elated when Honey Eater secretly declared her love, the youth was neither a full warrior nor accepted by the tribe. Touch the Sky was also sobered by Arrow Keeper’s warning that there would be many trials and much suffering before he ever raised high the lance of leadership.

  Chapter One

  “Hiya, hi-i-i-ya!”

  Screaming the shrill war cry of his tribe, the tall, broad-shouldered Cheyenne youth dug his heels into the flanks of his spirited dun pony. His left arm gripped the pony’s neck. His right was raised high over his head, a double-bladed throwing ax clutched tight in his fist.

  Dressed in beaded leggings, a breechclout, and elkskin moccasins, he had a strong, hawk nose, and his mouth was set in a straight, determined slit. His hair hung in long, loose locks, except where it was cropped close over his brow to keep his vision clear. The locks streamed almost straight out behind him as the pony reached a full gallop.

  “Hiya, hi-i-i-ya!”

  As he came abreast of a huge cottonwood he released the ax. It twirled end over end and the
n sliced into the tree with a solid thuck. A smaller youth, standing among a group of five Cheyenne watching from a nearby hummock, ran toward the tree to retrieve the ax. It was necessary to brace one foot against the cottonwood before he managed to pry the deeply embedded weapon loose.

  Touch the Sky slowed his dun to a trot and turned her back in the direction of the others. When he rode up, the oldest Cheyenne stepped forward. Called Black Elk, he had seen twenty winters. He was the only full warrior in the group.

  “At least now no blood flows from your pony,” Black Elk said.

  The warrior held his face impassive in the Indian way. His fierce appearance was made even fiercer by the leathery chunk of his right ear, which had been severed in battle and crudely sewn back on with buckskin thread.

  Touch the Sky felt warm blood creeping up the back of his neck. But he said nothing. Black Elk’s remark was a mocking reference to his first attempt to throw an ax from horseback, several moons earlier when Black Elk had first begun training the youths. Then the ax had ricocheted off the wrong tree and wounded his own pony.

  Despite his shame, Touch the Sky, too, held his face impassive. Vividly, he recalled the time when he had first joined Yellow Bear’s tribe and his white man’s habit of letting his emotions show in his face had earned him the insulting name Woman Face.

  Little Horse, who had retrieved the ax, spoke up in admiration of his friend’s skill. “Had this been a lice-eating Pawnee instead of a tree, he would be in two bloody pieces!”

  Black Elk took the ax from Little Horse, saying nothing. But a youth named Wolf Who Hunts Smiling spoke up scornfully. “This is nothing! Even a blind squirrel will root up an acorn now and then!”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, who belonged to the Panther clan, was Black Elk’s younger cousin. He was bigger and older than all the others, with the exception of Touch the Sky. He had a wily face befitting his name, with furtive eyes that followed every move of whomever he watched. Now those eyes were filled with hatred for Touch the Sky. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had seen his father cut down by Bluecoat canister shot, and he fiercely hated Touch the Sky for having grown up among the tribe’s sworn enemies.

  “Perhaps,” Touch the Sky said coldly, still sitting his horse, “you would like to wager that I cannot do this thing again?”

  Sparks of anger glinted in Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s dark eyes. But he only turned away, proudly saying nothing. In the beginning he had been free to mock and torment the newcomer at will. But since a special council had honored Touch the Sky’s skill and bravery in saving the tribe from the Pawnee, his cousin Black Elk forbade such things. Nevertheless the cunning Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had eyes to see and ears to hear. Some in the tribe had been opposed to honoring Touch the Sky. And Black Elk, who loved Chief Yellow Bear’s daughter, had noticed the long looks exchanged between Honey Eater and Touch the Sky. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling knew that Black Elk’s forbearance would not last forever.

  Touch the Sky, in turn, knew that his worst enemy was only biding his time. One night, shortly after their warrior training had begun, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had deliberately stepped between Touch the Sky and the campfire, which was an Indian’s way of identifying to others a person he intended to kill.

  “My brother, too, was good with the ax,” another Cheyenne youth said, glowering at Touch the Sky. The buck’s name was Swift Canoe, and he blamed the tall outsider for the death of his twin brother True Son. And because True Son’s body had been left in the camp of the tribe’s enemy, it had not received a proper burial. As a result, his soul would wander forever in torment.

  Touch the Sky held his face expressionless and refused to rise to the bait. Thanks to lies told by Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, many in the tribe believed that Touch the Sky had deliberately woken a Pawnee during a nighttime raid on their hidden camp. In fact it was Wolf Who Hunts Smiling who had caused True Son’s death by disobeying Black Elk’s orders—he had tried to take the scalp of the fierce Pawnee leader War Thunder. He had succeeded only in waking him up to raise the alarm.

  “Enough!” Black Elk spoke coldly. “Hear these words and then place them in your sashes. Only women stand around and fight with their tongues! You will die in your sleep like old squaws, not gloriously like warriors!”

  Without another word he handed the ax back to Little Horse. Touch the Sky’s friend was smaller than the others, but sure in his movements like a good mountain pony. He was quiet, never boasting or complaining like Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe. But the tribe knew well that behind Little Horse’s quiet manner was a fierce fighter. He, too, had been honored for fighting bravely during the Pawnee raid on their camp.

  Little Horse mounted his pony and successfully buried the ax deep into the cottonwood bark on his first pass. The fifth and last Cheyenne youth to try his skill was High Forehead, whose medicine bundle was the eagle’s beak. The youngest of the group, he had been sent to train with Black Elk as a replacement for the dead True Son.

  His first throw had range but missed the tree. When the ax stuck on the second throw, Touch the Sky and Little Horse offered brief words of praise. Then Black Elk ordered his entire band to mount.

  He led them farther west until the tall grass began to give way to the short-grass prairie. To the southwest, the snowcapped peaks of the Bighorn Mountains reflected a pure white in the late-morning sun. The Cheyenne were one sleep’s ride from Yellow Bear’s camp on a grassy site halfway between the Powder and the Rosebud Rivers. It was the Moon When the Geese Fly South, and the days were still warm. Nights, however, were crisp with the promise of cold moons soon to come.

  The young Indians practiced stringing and shooting arrows at a full gallop and charging in full battle rigs with streamered lances held high. Since being honored by the tribe, Touch the Sky was permitted to carry weapons. Before that time, Yellow Bear’s people feared he might use a weapon against them. The Bowie knife at his waist and the Navy Colt pistol in his legging sash had been taken as trophies after he killed and scalped Hiram Steele’s hired hand, who had tried to murder Touch the Sky when he returned to Bighorn Falls.

  As the young Cheyenne entered the valley of the Rosebud to water their ponies, the cottonwoods grew thicker. Often the huge ridges in the bark of the trees were clotted with shaggy fur where passing buffalo had rubbed against it. Avoiding all wagon tracks, the youths swung wide to circle around a new fort with walls of squared-off cottonwood logs.

  Suddenly, flocks of sparrow hawks and sand pipers rose from the river thickets in a panic and scattered. Black Elk raised his hand high, halting them. Their sister the sun was high in the sky. But an unnatural silence had settled over the valley like a heavy buffalo robe. Touch the Sky felt apprehension prickling in his blood.

  “Dismount,” Black Elk said tersely. “Tether your ponies and follow me.”

  “What is it, cousin?” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said.

  Black Elk sniffed the four directions of the wind. His fierce countenance became a mask of hatred. “White men!” he replied, and Touch the Sky and Little Horse exchanged worried glances.

  All six Cheyenne dismounted and tethered their horses near the river with long strips of rawhide. They also removed the bright red Hudson’s Bay blankets and hid them in the thickets to avoid drawing attention to the spot.

  Unconsciously, each of them fingered the pouch dangling from a buckskin thong on his breechclout. These were their medicine bags, which contained the special totem or magic object for each man’s clan—feathers, claws, beaks, or precious stones. Touch the Sky’s held a set of sharp badger claws Arrow Keeper, the tribe’s medicine man, had given him.

  “Attend to your weapons,” Black Elk said.

  Touch the Sky made sure he had a cap and cartridge in the loading gate of his pistol. When he looked up, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was following him closely with his furtive stare. His dark eyes mocked Touch the Sky. In his hands, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling held a Colt Model 1855 percussion rifle that had once been Touch the Sky’s. But when h
e was captured, a brave named War Bonnet took it from him and gave it to the younger Cheyenne.

  Keeping his voice low so Black Elk would not hear, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, “Perhaps you would like to take it back, Woman Face?”

  “It was rightfully presented to you by a warrior when I was a prisoner,” Touch the Sky replied. “But it will be mine again.”

  Hatred forced the wily, mocking grin from Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s face. But before he could do anything, Black Elk, whose ears were keener than they thought, said angrily, “You two jays! Keep your chatter locked inside you and notice the language that matters!”

  Following Black Elk’s example, the rest scanned their surroundings in slow, careful sweeps of their heads. They moved forward slowly, knowing it was movement, not shape, that would catch an enemy’s eye.

  Soon Black Elk spotted something and knelt to examine the grassy bank of the river. Then he gathered the others around him and pointed to the tracks. “Iron hooves,” he said. “White men’s horses.”

  Black Elk showed them how to read the bend of the grass to tell how recently the tracks had been made. These were very fresh—the lush grass was still nearly pressed flat. A short distance along the bank, Touch the Sky and the others gaped in astonishment—the single set of tracks was joined by at least a dozen others!

  They reached a huge dogleg bend in the river and worked their way through the thorny thickets in single file. The steady chuckle of the river helped to cover the sound of their passage. Touch the Sky emerged from the bend, following Little Horse, and cautiously poked his head around a hawthorn bush.

  Several long moments passed before he could understand what he was seeing. When the enormity of it finally sank in, he felt hot bile rise in his throat. Only a supreme effort kept him from retching.

  The scene was a comfortable river camp. There were several pack mules, one of them asleep over its picket. The hindquarters of an elk bull hung high in a tree to protect it from predators. Buffalo robes and beaver pelts were heaped everywhere, pressed into flat packs for transporting. The air was sharp with the pungent smell of castoreum, the orange-brown secretion of the beaver. Touch the Sky knew it gave off a strong, wild odor and was used by trappers as a lure to set their traps.