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  Touch the Sky found a nearby clearing amidst the thicket. He hobbled his pony in the patch of browse. Then he set to work building a crude brush lean-to in which to hide. He covered it over with branches and brambles, until it looked like a natural deadfall.

  He threw his buffalo robe inside. By now the sun was sending her last feeble rays up against the encroaching night sky. Touch the Sky was now prepared for that which he had been dreading.

  First he found a stand of spruce trees and dug some balsam sap from one. From a red willow he peeled strips of soft bark. Then he returned to his brush lean-to and crawled inside.

  Wincing, he snapped the fletching off of the Pawnee arrow. Then, setting his jaw, he jerked the arrow out forward in one sharp tug.

  White hot fire licked at his side, and a field of black dots danced in front of his eyes. Hurrying to get it done before he passed out, he packed the ragged, angry edges of his wound with balsam. Then he bound it with strips of the bark.

  His ministrations left him exhausted. He collapsed back into his robe. Within moments he was sleeping like a dead man, even as the nearby Pawnee searched desperately for his trail.

  Chapter Five

  He woke to clear morning light and the scolding of jays, angry at this human intrusion into their nesting grounds.

  But the warbling song of the nearby purple finch told Touch the Sky no one else was lurking in the area. Cautiously, he rose to a sitting position in the lean-to. Pain jolted through his wounded side. He eased outside for a better look.

  A cold apprehension iced his stomach when he saw the ragged, discolored edges of his wound. The balsam had eased the burning pain. But he had waited too long to remove the arrow—now the wound was contaminated deep inside. A greenish-yellow discharge oozed from the torn flesh.

  He checked on his pony and led her down to the river to drink. Then he moved her to a new patch of browse, still hidden within the thickets.

  By midday he was light-headed. He realized he needed fresh meat for strength and to fight the infection. This close to the river, small game was plentiful. He killed a rabbit, gutted and skinned it, then used the same arrow he’d shot it with as a spit, running it lengthwise through the rabbit.

  He built a small fire while the sun was highest, which made the smoke and flames hard to see. As soon as the meat was charred enough to eat, he put the fire out. He also followed the precaution, after he’d devoured the rabbit, of moving further upriver in case the smoke had been spotted.

  Well past midday, a new brush lean-to constructed, Touch the Sky began to relax. By now it appeared that he had successfully thrown the Pawnee off his scent. They must, he decided, be well out of this area. But when he ventured closer to the water’s edge, he discovered he was wrong.

  He first spotted the tracks in a patch of lush marsh marigold. Many tracks, leading up and down the river bank several times. They were made by unshod Indian ponies, and judging from the sharp bend of the crushed marigolds, the latest set were made quite recently.

  Meaning the Pawnee probably remained in the area, searching for him.

  Knowing the lice-eaters’ skill at tracking, Touch the Sky realized it was only a matter of time before they closed in on him.

  He considered his plight. The infection in his wound would soon severely limit his ability to travel very far across wide-open plains. The Pawnee would simply trail him like wolves stalking a wounded buffalo, merely waiting for him to drop. Nor could he stay here in the river valley—even if he could stay hidden, his pony would eventually be discovered.

  No, thought Touch the Sky—neither plains nor river valley would do. He glanced south, toward the snowcapped peaks of the Bighorn Mountains.

  His best chance for survival now was to take to the high country.

  The Ute tribe lived high up in those peaks. They had been driven there by Sioux and Cheyenne after it was learned they were cooperating with Bluecoat pony soldiers. However, the turncoat Pawnee were also currently at war with the Ute.

  Touch the Sky knew it would be easier for him to flee alone unnoticed into the mountains than it would be for the Pawnee band. They were not likely to ride far up into the hostile high country merely to capture one enemy.

  The country between the river valley and the mountains was mostly flat, sparsely forested tableland and plains. Despite the Pawnee skill with star charts, he knew his only chance lay in leaving after darkness fell.

  Again he checked on the gray, leading her to water before he tethered her in a sheltered patch of graze. Then he tended to his wound. He cleaned it as best he could and repacked it with balsam. Afterward, he rested inside the lean-to, preparing for his journey.

  Nightfall brought clouds and light rain, which quickly gave way to a starlit sky and a full moon. Touch the Sky went down to the river to drink and cleanse his wound one more time. By now his side had swollen even more, the jagged mouth of the wound oozing pus. He was light-headed, feverish, and his weak legs felt hamstrung.

  The fat moon and all the stars worried him. Before he retrieved his pony he rubbed his body down with mud to cut reflection. Then he squatted and concentrated on the most important survival skill his warrior training had taught him: freeing his mind of useless thoughts and paying attention instead to the language of nature.

  All seemed well. The sparrow hawks which thickened the treetops near the water remained undisturbed. Frogs sent out their eerie, croaking rhythm, the hum of cicadas and crickets was unbroken. Prowling owls hooted to each other across the shadowy expanse of the murmuring river.

  Now the time was right. If Pawnee were lurking nearby, they had cleverly fooled even nature herself.

  But as he rose and started back toward the lean-to, his wounded side protested with a painful throbbing. Once he was forced to stop and sink to his knees until strength returned to his legs.

  Again he glanced toward the peaks of the Bighorns, dark shapes against the blue-black night sky. Would he even be able to make the ride in this condition? But he had no choice. It was either ride for his life, or surrender it here.

  He dropped one hand to his medicine pouch and offered a brief prayer to Maiyun. Then he went to retrieve his weapons and his pony.

  ~*~

  “He knew it was foolish to stay hidden here. His wound bothers him greatly, but he has wisely run to the mountains. The tracks are fresh, but so is his pony. It has drunk and grazed and rested.”

  Gun Powder rose from the set of prints leading away from the river thickets toward the outlying plains and the distant Bighorn Mountains.

  “He avoided us well,” said Red Plume, still sitting his horse. “We passed this spot many times, searching. Our Cheyenne buck knows how to play the fox.”

  “His pony,” said Gun Powder, “was captured from the Crow.”

  He pointed to the prints. In the bright wash of a full moon, looking closely, he could see the slight cleft made by the back of the hoof—the distinctive print of the stocky mountain breed preferred by the Crow tribe, allies in battle of the Pawnee.

  “If he counted coup on a Crow brave,” said Red Plume, “he is a warrior of the first rank.”

  “Then, why not let him go?” asked one of the other four braves riding with Red Plume and Gun Powder. “We can capture another Cheyenne. Why ride into the teeth of our enemies, the Ute?”

  “I too am not eager to face Ute in their stronghold,” said Red Plume. “But only think on this thing. This buck we track knows by now that we are Pawnee. We cannot be sure that Yellow Bear’s tribe knows yet that we are in the Powder River country. If we let him go, and he returns to his clan circle, the entire Cheyenne nation will soon know that we have slipped into their hunting grounds.

  “No, brothers! Iron Knife failed his tribe when he aimed wrong. Now there is nothing else for it but to finish the work Iron Knife’s arrow has begun. And with luck, we will also learn the secret of exactly when and where the Cheyenne will be holding their chief-renewal ceremony.”

  Red Plume looked at
Gun Powder again. “You say his pony is fresh. But as you also say, his wound troubles him greatly. Quickly, mount up! With this moon turning night into day, we can ride hard and catch him before he even reaches the mountains.”

  ~*~

  He rode hard across the open country, his mind playing cat and mouse with consciousness. At one moment the infection in his wound made him feel feverish; a moment later chills would sweep through him, turning the clammy sweat cold all over him.

  Only the occasional stand of scrub pine and cedar broke the monotonous, vast emptiness-around him. In the moonlight he felt vulnerable, constantly observed. He slowed to rest the gray. Almost immediately, a bitch wolf began slinking along behind him, tenacious but keeping her distance.

  Then Touch the Sky realized: He was giving off the stink of death! Wolves never attacked humans—they merely trailed them when they sensed death was near at hand, patiently waiting for nature to provide a meal.

  At one point, when he was perhaps halfway to the foothills, he stopped his pony at the top of a long rise. By now his side was hot and throbbing, sending fiery tentacles of pain throughout his body when he dismounted. Lining himself up with the huge yellow moon, he stared out across the wavering plains for a long time until he was sure he detected the movement of riders following him. They were outlined against the huge saffron moon behind them—vague, shimmering shapes that drew gradually closer.

  The lice-eaters had picked up his trail! Touch the Sky spoke to his pony; then, face crumpling at the pain, he mounted and dug his heels hard into her flanks.

  “Hi-ya!” He shouted the battle cry to rally both of them.

  Later, he would have no memory of that grueling race across the flats with death literally at his heels. He drove the gray mercilessly until she faltered, then slowed to a long trot to rest her. He continued this pattern, never once stopping. At one point, he started awake and realized he had been unconscious—how long, he didn’t know. But if he fell from the saddle now, in his condition, his scalp was as good as dangling from a Pawnee coup stick.

  While he was still lucid enough to do so, he freed one of the buffalo-hair ropes he used as a long tether for the pony. Wrapping it around his waist, carefully avoiding the aching wound, he then ran it through the pony’s hackamore and under her belly like a surcingle, a strap used as a handhold when riding a mean horse. He then tied it around his waist again, securing himself.

  He rode as if through a thick but patchy fog. For moments his eyes would snap open and he could see the distant peaks of the mountains, looming closer each time. Then the undertow of delirium would suck him under again, and for long spells he was unconscious while the gray set her own pace.

  Once, toward sunrise, he turned again to search the flats behind him. He didn’t need the aid of the moon now.

  The Pawnee had steadily closed the distance. He spotted them, sky-lined on top of a ridge against the lightening sky. He could count the shapes now—six of them.

  Fear keeping him awake, he finally gained the foothills as the sun burst forth over the horizon. Soon he was following a winding trail which snaked its way steadily higher through meadows of beautiful columbine and bright mountain laurel.

  Every time he glanced back, pain stabbing through his side, he could see the Pawnee even nearer. The morning sun glistened on their shaved skulls and greased topknots highlighted the brilliant streamers flying from their lances. They had been riding six abreast, but now rode single file along the narrow mountain trail.

  Somewhere above, thought Touch the Sky, lurked Ute eager to raise the hair of Cheyenne or Pawnee. How far would the lice-eaters pursue him?

  Despite the lost ground, he decided to stop briefly so he and the gray could drink from a streamlet. He dipped his head under the surface of the ice-cold water, the shock momentarily sharpening his senses again. He unwrapped his side and tried not to give in to fear when he saw how red and savage and swollen the wound had become. A putrid stink like carrion assaulted his nostrils.

  He immersed in the cold water, the pain momentarily abating. But already he could hear the distant shouts of his Pawnee pursuers, pumping blood into their eyes by singing their battle songs.

  The rest did the sturdy mountain pony good. Soon she had gained back some of the lost ground as her superior breeding began to pay off in the higher altitudes. She was able to scamper effortlessly where Touch the Sky thought only sure-footed mules could go.

  As they were about to break out above the tree line, the gray suddenly shied and nervously side-jumped. Fearing ambush by Ute, Touch the Sky instead spotted a black bear well back from the trail. It ignored him, rolling a log over to look for insects. He calmed his pony and quickly urged her higher—all horses instinctively hated and feared bears, and some had been known to panic, killing their riders in headlong rushes over cliffs.

  He began to fade in and out of awareness again as they pushed even higher, past wind-wrung trees stubbornly growing from cracks in rocks. The faint trail gave way to rock-strewn, dangerous slopes which sometimes rose precipitously. Twice the powerful gray slipped and lost her footing. Jolted hard, Touch the Sky was forced to cry out at the explosion of fiery hurt in his side.

  Despite his determination, he passed out for some time. He woke only when the gray suddenly halted, refusing to climb further.

  Then he saw why: a huge rockslide had wiped out much of the slope above, the mass of the boulders and rocks forming a huge choke point in front of him when they reached a narrow defile. Though the narrow opening had stopped most of them, they had jumbled into and over it with overwhelming weight. Now the slide was balanced on the featheredge, ready to hurtle on downward at the slightest nudge.

  A nudge as slight as the weight of one pony.

  Touch the Sky carefully skirted the dangerous area, riding well to the left of the loose scree. But now he was so weak that only the rope rigging held him on horseback. There was no other choice: He would have to risk a hiding place long enough to rest.

  Above the rockslide, a lone boulder had been stopped by a granite outcropping. Touch the Sky made for its apron of shade. He scarcely mustered enough energy to dismount and hobble his pony in the shade of the outcropping before exhaustion turned his limbs to water. He crawled behind the boulder.

  He dropped into a fitful, troubling sleep, his breath rasping in his throat. Reality fused with dreams. He heard the Pawnee war cry, heard the harsh, sharp, precise twang of their Osage bows. He heard women and children crying, dying horses nickering, smelled the sheared-metal tang of blood—rivers of blood.

  Most disturbing of all was the unsettling image which plagued Touch the Sky during his delirium sleep: the image of a huge snake, a snake larger than any he had ever seen, its perfectly hinged jaws open wide as it swallowed a full-grown horse!

  But then one of the dream noises became more real than the others, somehow seemed closer.

  When his eyes snapped open, the sun blazed straight into them. At the same moment, no more than a good stone’s throw down the slope, the triumphant Pawnee raised their voices in shrill war cries as they spotted his pony.

  Chapter Six

  Pushing their ponies hard, avoiding paleface wagon tracks, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Swift Canoe rode due east toward the Black Hills and sacred Medicine Lake.

  They already knew this was Touch the Sky’s destination. Arrow Keeper had made the announcement about Touch the Sky’s supposedly important mission for the tribe. But Black Elk, their war leader, had given them an important mission too.

  Only theirs was a mission of death.

  Had they taken time to read the signs, they would quickly have learned that their quarry was being pursued in a different direction. But they couldn’t waste valuable time—he had one sleep’s lead on them. Their plan was to ride fast like hawks swept along in a fierce wind and arrive at Medicine Lake before him. Black Elk, however, had announced to the tribe that they were only riding south to the Platte River to scout for Pawnee.

  S
hortly after they were out of sight of the curious eyes of the sentries, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, “I know a shorter way.”

  He veered away from the familiar game trail and pointed his pure black pony northeast. The country here was more wooded and far less dangerous to ride because there were few prairie dog holes to trip a horse. However, it was occasionally patrolled by Bluecoat logging details from the soldier-town just south of the Little Missouri River.

  “Brother,” said Swift Canoe when they stopped to water their ponies at a buffalo wallow. “A thing troubles me.”

  “Then speak of it,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. His furtive, swift eyes constantly scanned the surrounding ridges and cut to their back-trail.

  Swift Canoe could not quite admit that he had attempted to kill Touch the Sky but failed. It happened when Swift Canoe and River of Winds had been sent to Bighorn Falls to spy on Touch the Sky and Little Horse. Now he only said:

  “Like yours, my heart is nothing but stone toward Woman Face. He killed my brother! I agree with Black Elk. He must be killed for the good of the tribe. But this one thing troubles me, this drawing of Cheyenne blood so near our sacred lake. Can we not kill him sooner and avoid defiling the Arrows?”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had thought of this too. As usual he said nothing when Swift Canoe accused Touch the Sky of killing his brother, True Son. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, of all members of the tribe, knew full well that Touch the Sky had not caused True Son’s death. But he also remembered seeing his own father turned into stew meat by Bluecoat canister shot. He hated all whites, and this “Cheyenne” intruder was one of their dogs!

  Still—the act of murdering another Cheyenne, even a stinking turncoat, was so heinous that the same Cheyenne word for “putrid” was applied to murderers. This was because murder began a man’s internal corruption. About the murderer there clung the rotten smell. Murder brought the tribe bad luck. There could be no success in war; there could be no bounty in the hunt because game shunned the territory. Murderers were not allowed to eat or smoke from Cheyenne utensils for fear of polluting them.