Death Chant Page 5

  The usual way to settle such disputes was to rely on a witness. “Did anyone else see what happened?” Black Elk said.

  No one spoke up. Touch the Sky felt his heart sink. Black Elk hated him, and he had not even one friend in the group. Surely he would lose this magnificent animal!

  A moment later he gasped in shock when Black Elk roughly shoved Wolf Who Hunts Smiling off his black. The young Cheyenne landed hard on his back.

  “I saw what happened,” Black Elk said angrily to his fallen cousin. “I saw you attempt to knock Touch the Sky from his horse, and I saw him strike coup first. Know this. My heart is like a stone toward Touch the Sky. I care not if he lives or dies. But a Cheyenne warrior’s honor demands that he must always speak the straight word about counting coup. Touch the Sky performed like a true brave, and the gray is his. As punishment for your lies, you will present your stolen horse to High Forehead to replace his dead pony.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling started to protest, but Black Elk silenced him with a withering stare. Touch the Sky’s heart swelled with joy. But Black Elk turned to him and, keeping his voice low so the others could not hear, said, “You remember what I told you. Either Honey Eater accepts my horses, or you and I must fight to the death.”

  Soon after Black Elk’s group returned to the Tongue River camp, Chief Yellow Bear and the headmen called a council.

  River of Winds and the braves he had selected had returned from the scouting mission ordered by Yellow Bear. As the councilors and warriors assembled in the huge central lodge, a sense of urgency filled everyone.

  When Touch the Sky entered the lodge, no one acknowledged his presence. High Forehead started to nod. Then he saw how Little Horse had turned his head, and he did the same. But as Touch the Sky took his place along the back wall with the other warriors-in-training, old Arrow Keeper looked up from the pipe he was preparing. He nodded at the tall, broad-shouldered youth. His heart surging in gratitude, Touch the Sky nodded back.

  Arrow Keeper passed the pipe to Chief Yellow Bear. The old silver-haired chief, his worried and weary face as lined as dry riverbed clay, smoked to the four directions. He passed the pipe on to the headmen. Soon the smell of burning red willow bark filled the lodge. Yellow Bear then called on River of Winds to make his report.

  River of Winds was of medium height and slender build. His rich black mane of hair had been cropped short in mourning for the three braves killed on their way to the trading post and the five dead hunters reported by the Lakota word-bringer.

  “Fathers! Brothers!” he said after taking his place next to Yellow Bear in the center of the lodge. “We are up against an evil and powerful enemy. I, Scalp Cane, and Porcupine Bear hid ourselves on the ridge overlooking the paleface trading post. Soon we saw the two palefaces described by Touch the Sky bearing beaver pelts to the post.

  “We followed them for nearly two sleeps, until they reached a huge camp near the Knife River just west of Mandan country. Here we saw many whites, some appearing to live in the camp, many more reporting in small groups from outlying camps. We also saw the scar-faced white leader whom Black Elk spoke of—the leader of the butchers at the Rosebud camp.

  “Fathers! Brothers! Hear my words now and place them forever near your heart, for they are true words and sad words. The whites returning to this central camp bore not only furs and pelts, but the scalps of our red brothers. We followed the ugly scar-face and several of his men. The things we saw were not meant for the eyes of men who believe in the Great Spirit. We saw these palefaces give devil water to their own white brothers, and then, when they had made them senseless with drink, raise their hair while they slept!”

  River of Winds paused, fighting to regain control of his emotions. It was not right to show his feelings before this assemblage of wise men and warriors. But the things he had seen had smitten his heart like the blade of a tomahawk.

  “We also saw this team of white murderers encounter a small group of Cheyenne belonging to the band led by Shoots Left-Handed. Again the scar-face plied them with strong water and scalped them in their drunken sleep. And this time the scalps were taken to the soldier town the whites call Fort Grand. We were not able to follow closely, but when the palefaces emerged from the fort, they no longer had the scalps of our Shaiyena brothers.”

  River of Winds turned his face for a moment until he was under control again. Then he concluded, “Fathers! Brothers! We were not painted for battle and had made no sacrifice to the sacred Medicine Arrows. Had we done these things, we would have died trying to defend our Cheyenne brothers. But Yellow Bear ordered us to observe only and to report what we had seen. Never will I forget this terrible thing I have witnessed, nor forgive myself that I did not fight like a man to prevent the bloodshed of our own!”

  He finished speaking and returned to his place among the warriors. For a long time Yellow Bear was silent, his weathered face impassive. The cold moons would soon be approaching, and there was a knife-edge of chill in the air. He pulled his red blanket tighter about his shoulders. Finally he spoke, his voice heavy with sadness.

  “Brothers! Your chief has rinsed his mouth in cold, fresh water, and now he speaks only true things. There is none among us who hates war and killing more than I. Young men dream of glory, of counting coup and taking scalps. Old men desire only a warm fire and a full belly.

  “Twice now have I lost good wives to our enemies. The sadness in my heart is big like the plains, and were it not that my people need me, I would fall on my knife and join my wives in the Land of Ghosts. But the things that River of Winds has told us today have turned my heart into a stone. There is no soft place left in it. Now your chief says this. Warriors, ready your battle rigs! We will dance the war dance and make our sacrifices to the Medicine Arrows. Arrow Keeper, how do you counsel?”

  The old medicine man rose and spoke without hesitation. “I back my chief in this thing. This evil scar-face and his white murderers must be stopped. There is a bounty on Cheyenne scalps, and we are targets for all who would profit from our death. Now these white dogs are killing our people. And it will not stop with this. Soon these white dogs will turn Cheyenne against Sioux, Jicarilla against Ute. Their strong water will divide the red nations and weaken us against our white enemies.”

  These words were met with unanimous shouts of approval.

  “Then it is decided,” Yellow Bear said. “It is time for Yellow Bear, your peace chief, to pray and meditate and seek medicine visions. From this time forth, you follow Black Elk, your war leader. Arrow Keeper! Make ready the sacred arrows. Until these white dogs are hunted down and destroyed, the Cheyenne are at war!”

  Chapter Six

  Only one sleep after the war council was held, Arrow Keeper sent the crier throughout camp, announcing to all blooded warriors and warriors-in-training that a sacred Medicine Arrows ceremony would be held later.

  The war dance and offering to the arrows would take place soon after the sun had hidden herself under the western horizon. When his shadow began to lengthen, Touch the Sky gathered with the rest of the tribe in the open area before the council lodge. Black Elk, their official war chief, had called all men, women, and children together before the ceremony. It was his duty as war leader to explain his strategy for fighting the treacherous white murderers who were posing as traders and trappers.

  The cold moons were not far off, and a crisp chill stiffened the breeze. Occasionally, dead leaves were stripped from the cottonwood trees bordering the river and fluttered down among the gathering clans. Most of the men had abandoned their light breechclouts for buckskin shirts and leggings.

  “Cheyenne people!” Black Elk shouted, standing on a tree stump so he would rise above the others. He was fierce in his crow-feather war bonnet. “Have ears for my words!”

  The hubbub of conversation ceased. Touch the Sky felt eyes on him and glanced to his right. Little Horse was staring at him from nearby, suspicion etched into every feature.

  Pointedly, making sure Touch
the Sky saw him, Little Horse averted his eyes. He moved farther away until he was lost in the crowd. Touch the Sky felt heat rising into his face at the snub. He had lost his last friend in the tribe except for Arrow Keeper and Honey Eater— and she had to keep her feelings secret from the others.

  Why, Touch the Sky berated himself again, had he been foolish enough to drink the paleface strong water and let the murderers pretend to be his friends? His mistake had convinced Little Horse that he was a white man’s dog, not a true Cheyenne among Yellow Bear’s people.

  “Cheyenne!” Black Elk said. “This time our enemies are not the lice-eating Pawnee, who attack us where we live and attack as one people. Our enemies are wily as the fox, slippery as the weasel. And like wolves worrying a buffalo herd, they divide into packs for the kill!

  “Therefore, we, too, will fight in packs. We will follow the scar-faced leader’s teams. They are well armed with new rifles and abundant ammunition. We are short of black powder and lead. But we will hunt them out, hound them, and kill or drive them from our lands. Let them hide in forest or cave, let them flee into the mountains—their scalps will dangle from our lodge poles, or may Black Elk die of the yellow vomit!”

  Three times he thrust his red-streamered lance high overhead. Three times the warriors shouted their approval of his brave oath.

  “Warriors!” Black Elk said. “Now our sister the sun flees from the sky. Return to your tipis and ready your battle rigs. Paint your faces for war. Prepare to sing, to dance, to make your offering to the sacred arrows!”

  Another shout greeted his words. Soon the square was emptying as everyone hastened to prepare.

  Lost in thought, Touch the Sky had almost reached the flap over his tipi before he noticed two figures in the grainy twilight of early evening—Swift Canoe and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.

  Arrow Keeper had packed tobacco and balsam into Swift Canoe’s leg wound and wrapped it with strips of soft cedar bark. The young Cheyenne still blamed Touch the Sky for the death of True Son, his twin brother, in the mountain stronghold of the Pawnee. But Touch the Sky knew the blame lay with Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. Too eager for a scalp, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had woken War Thunder, the Pawnee leader, and thus alerted the entire camp. True Son had been shot while trying to escape.

  But the malice in Swift Canoe’s face was nothing compared to the fierce hatred in Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s furtive eyes. “Woman Face!” he said with contempt. “You have stolen my gray pony. I first counted coup, and now that horse should be mine.”

  Although Touch the Sky towered over the smaller Cheyenne, he was wary. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling could strike as swiftly as a rattlesnake. “You are without shame or honor,” Touch the Sky said. “It is bad enough that you speak with two tongues in front of the others. But to lie now, looking into my eyes, when you saw me count coup first. There is nothing good in your heart. You are a disgrace to your tribe.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s wily face twisted with rage. In a moment his knife was in his hand.

  Despite Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s vow to kill him, Touch the Sky knew even then that his enemy would not kill him in camp. Cheyenne law demanded that any Cheyenne killing another be ostracized, even in cases of accidental death. The killer was not usually banished from the tribe— such a fate was so horrible, to an Indian, that even murderers were spared this punishment. But murderers and their families were banned from participating in the Medicine Arrows ceremony. The ceremony, also known as the renewal of the arrows, was not just important as a battle ritual—it provided the main deterrent to murder within the tribe since the killing of one Cheyenne by another bloodied the sacred arrows. And bloodying the arrows thus endangered the well-being of the entire tribe.

  Nonetheless, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling loved to cut with his blade, and Touch the Sky knew this. He also knew that his enemy liked to rely on the element of surprise. Touch the Sky had learned the hard way not to lose this advantage. Now he moved quickly.

  Knowing full well Swift Canoe would jump him too, Touch the Sky reached into his legging sash and drew out his Navy Colt. In the same motion with which he drew it out, he flung it hard at Swift Canoe’s head. There was a harsh thud as the heavy weapon cracked Swift Canoe in the forehead. His breath escaping in a surprised hiss, he crumpled unconscious to the ground.

  An instant later Touch the Sky leaped backward, barely missing the point of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s blade as it slashed in front of his chest. A moment later Touch the Sky’s Bowie was in his hand, and he leaped forward before the other Cheyenne could recover his balance from his missed attempt.

  Touch the Sky slashed down hard diagonally, opening a wound from Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s right shoulder to his left ribcage. The wound was not deep, but instantly rivulets of blood were pouring down his front and dripping into the ground.

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling cried out in shock at the white-hot pain. His knife fell from his hand. Touch the Sky kicked it off into the brush around them.

  “There!” Touch the Sky said triumphantly. “I have counted coup twice before your eyes! Will you still lie and tell me you struck first?”

  Despite his pain and humiliation, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s swift eyes never once left his enemy. He was livid with hatred.

  “Enjoy your victory, white man’s dog! Your days with this tribe are numbered. Even Little Horse, once your shadow, has turned against you. Now Black Elk’s horses have been returned by Honey Eater, and everyone knows why! Strut now, Woman Face! The day comes when your guts will be carrion for the buzzards and coyotes!”

  With that, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling knelt to revive Swift Canoe. Not turning his back until he was well away, Touch the Sky returned to his tipi to prepare for the renewal of the arrows. But the elation of his victory was tempered by the truth of his enemy’s words.

  Arrow Keeper was deeply troubled.

  He had fought many enemies in his time and seen many trials and much sadness. Once, many winters ago when he was still a warrior, the sacred arrows had been captured by Pawnee. Until the arrows were again recovered, those were perhaps the blackest days for the Cheyenne people.

  But this new danger, he thought as he rummaged underneath his buffalo robes, was an enemy no red man knew how to fight. White men and devil water—the strong water could destroy a tribe faster and more completely than Bluecoat canister shot.

  The ceremony would begin soon, and he had already donned his special calico shirt painted with magic symbols. His face was greased as the warriors would grease theirs on the warpath. His forehead was painted yellow, his nose red, his chin black. His single-horned war bonnet contained forty feathers in its tail, one for each time he had counted coup against an enemy.

  He removed the coyote-fur pouch that contained the arrows. But he held them without unwrapping them, still lost in pensive thought.

  There were more and more reports about strong water reaching the surrounding Indians. Strong water made the red men crazy and destroyed their belief in Maiyun, the Supernatural. Thus it also eroded their warrior courage and virtue.

  Arrow Keeper knew that the Great White Father, who lived far east of the river called The Great Waters, had tried to do right. He had spoken to his white headmen and they had passed laws meant to help the Indians. Traders were required to buy talking papers called licenses and were not legally permitted to sell alcohol to red men inside Indian territory.

  There were also laws, more talking papers, which declared that white squatters within Indian territory were to be evicted by Bluecoats. But all these laws were ignored. Nowhere could a white man’s council—called a jury—be found that would convict whites in cases involving Indians.

  His heart heavy with a sense of foreboding, Arrow Keeper unwrapped the coyote-fur pouch. Four stone-tipped arrows, dyed bright blue and yellow and fletched with scarlet feathers, lay inside.

  “May they bring the tribe strong medicine,” he prayed. Protecting those four arrows was his chief tribal responsibility. For this great honor h
e was called Arrow Keeper and allowed to preside over the sacred Medicine Arrows ceremony. The fate of these four arrows represented the fate of the tribe.

  The Medicine Arrows were the equivalent of the white man’s Bible. Whenever a Cheyenne swore a sacred oath, he did so while touching a buffalo skull on which were painted four arrows. The Keeper of the Arrows was considered so important and holy that he could not be deposed or subjected to Cheyenne law. The only other Cheyenne so honored were tribal chiefs and the chiefs of the soldier societies such as the Dog Soldiers and the Bowstrings.

  It was Arrow Keeper’s sacred job to keep the arrows forever sweet and clean. But it was also each member of the tribe’s responsibility to keep them from defilement. Arrow Keeper knew the renewal of the arrows ceremony was important because it reminded each Cheyenne that he was closely linked to the tribe. It made him mindful of his fellow men and more respectful of their rights, as well as more likely to fulfill his obligations. Quarreling and even undue noises were forbidden during the ceremony. Though only warriors would participate in that night’s battle ceremony, the entire tribe took part in the annual renewal.

  He lifted the elk skin flap of his tipi and saw that night had drawn her black shawl over the camp. Far-flung stars blazed like gems in the vast dark dome of the sky. Bright fires were lit throughout the camp, including the huge one near the council lodge, flaming bright in preparation for the renewal of the arrows.

  The old man watched all of it for a moment, his painted, weather-lined face like a grotesque and ancient mask in the flickering light. Once again his thoughts veered toward the tall Cheyenne youth called Touch the Sky.

  The young buck had made amazing progress since his first stumbling, halting days with the tribe. He had even been honored in a special council. But now he was in trouble again. Arrow Keeper had sensed it when Black Elk’s scouting party returned from the trading post. Touch the Sky and Little Horse were no longer friends. Worse, Touch the Sky had earned the wrath of the jealous and dangerous warrior Black Elk. Black Elk was a warrior of honor, but he was covered with hard bark and determined to get his way. His sense of honor would not let him be humiliated by a junior warrior—even one who had counted coup successfully and was about to participate in his first Medicine Arrows ceremony.