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  Eventually, when there was no sign he was being followed, Touch the Sky began to relax on that count. Had the lice-eaters supped full of him and the trouble he caused? Had they finally given up, assuming he must be dead?

  Perhaps. But as he slogged ever onward, driving his reluctant, hungry pony, he couldn’t help wondering: What did it matter if he’d eluded his enemies? Wouldn’t it have been better to die fighting than to crawl to a slow, agonizing death on the open plains?

  Better to die as a warrior than to die as he had so far lived: alone and belonging nowhere.

  Chapter Eight

  By the time Touch the Sky spotted the pony soldiers, it was too late to flee.

  The midday sun burned hot and glaring from a sky of such a deep, bottomless blue it made him squint. He was crossing barren flats, a short-grass prairie broken by the occasional stand of scrub oak. He had dismounted to cautiously examine a long-deserted white outpost.

  It was a group of sod houses with long roots trailing down from the roofs. They had been built in a circle for defense from Indians. The walls were loop-holed to accommodate rifle barrels. A stone watering trough in the yard held several inches of rain.

  Touch the Sky guessed that this had once served as a way station for the white man’s huge, mule-team freight wagons. These were more and more numerous on the plains as the “Indian menace” meant more and more supplies for the Bluecoat army.

  Little remained behind now. Touch the Sky found only some empty wooden crates and a pile of buffalo bones, all heaped in one corner of the largest sod house.

  Hunger gnawed at his belly. First he turned his pony loose to graze the sparse grass of the yard and drink from the trough. Then he hauled some of the bones outside into the sunlight.

  Touch the Sky cracked them open on the edge of the water trough. Then he used the point of his knife to gouge out the soft, nutritious marrow. What couldn’t be reached with his blade he dug out with the point of a narrow stick.

  This put little in his empty belly. But even that little bit rallied him. Now he thought of a trick Black Elk had taught his band of young warriors.

  He debated. It might be risky. But it seemed so empty out here, it ought to be safe. He had seen it work once before in country such as this.

  And if the Pawnee were tracking him, it hardly mattered—by now they knew exactly where he was.

  Moving gingerly to accommodate his still sore wound, Touch the Sky stacked some of the crates near the corner of one of the sod buildings. Then he climbed up and jabbed the stone point of his battle lance into the roof. Now the long red streamers flapped in the breeze.

  Black Elk had thus attracted and shot a curious elk on the open plains, first tying a cloth to a stick. Perhaps, thought Touch the Sky, it would attract game now.

  But instead of game, it attracted a Bluecoat cavalry squad.

  Hours had passed with no luck. He gave up and was on the verge of whistling for his pony. Suddenly, a flock of frightened sparrow hawks shot by overhead.

  Touch the Sky scrambled back up to the roof, careful not to skyline himself, and spotted the patrol. They rode out of the east in a fanned-out wedge formation, about a dozen strong. They were closing rapidly on the sod houses.

  Outrunning them on his tired pony was out of the question. Even if he fled now, he would still be clearly visible on the open plain to the west when they reached the yard.

  It was unlikely they had yet noticed the gray—she was blocked from sight by one of the sod houses. Touch the Sky whistled for her. When she trotted over, he led her behind the largest building. He could only hope the Bluecoats would make a quick check and ride on.

  Otherwise ... he slid his throwing ax out of his pannier. Otherwise, he had the element of surprise—at least one long-knife would go under with him. He had no doubt the soldiers would kill him. A Cheyenne this far from the Powder River homeland was considered a renegade. The talking papers called “treaties” had done nothing to soften the white man’s heart.

  It was then that Touch the Sky spotted the skunk.

  It emerged from under a rocky mound near the yard, moving at the slow, leisurely pace of an animal that knows it need not bother running if threatened. Touch the Sky knew the foul-smelling secretion of its anal pouches could be whiffed from an hour’s ride away. Clothing sometimes retained the stink permanently.

  He had little time to consider his idea. Instead, he hurried across the yard, “attacking” the skunk.

  The animal glanced back at him, then raised its long, thickly haired tail in warning. Steeling himself, keeping the wind at his back, Touch the Sky moved in closer.

  The skunk turned its back, erected its tail, and began the forceful muscular contractions that shot forth the pale yellow spray. As it emptied its pouches, Touch the Sky hurriedly backed away. But still, even with the wind at his back, the powerful stink tickled his gag reflex and made tears spring to his eyes.

  For a moment the wind shifted, seeming to swirl directionless. Then it steadied to a swift breeze blowing out of the southwest. As Touch the Sky, still gagging, eyes streaming, staggered back to his hidden pony, the overwhelming stench was wafted out across the plains.

  The soldiers bore down on the way station, their sabers gleaming in the sun.

  Their horses’ iron-shod hooves tore out clumps of dirt and grass and flung them into the sky. The officer riding at the head of the wedge formation raised his saber. Now the men closed ranks and formed a skirmish line.

  For a moment the sun was blocked, and Touch the Sky got a good look at the officer’s face. His blood ran cold when he recognized that sneer of cold command—Lieutenant Seth Carlson!

  Of course it made sense that he would encounter his old enemy this far north. Touch the Sky’s soldier friend, Tom Riley from Fort Bates, had explained it. After Touch the Sky helped his white parents defeat Hiram Steele and Carlson, the officer had been reassigned to a desolate outpost up north.

  Now Touch the Sky recalled his vow from that time he had refused to kill Carlson because it was nighttime, when killing should be avoided: that they would meet again by day, and that Touch the Sky would dangle the soldiers scalp from his clout.

  Perhaps he would never live to dangle it, thought Touch the Sky. But if he was quick he could at least scalp his enemy before the soldiers killed him in turn.

  Carlson’s patrol thundered closer.

  Touch the Sky slid his knife out of its sheath and gripped it in his teeth, ready. He gripped his throwing ax and watched from behind the largest house, peering cautiously around the corner.

  The soldiers raised a triumphant shout as they drew closer, their blood up for adventure.

  Touch the Sky quietly sang the Cheyenne Death Song even as he prepared to fight for his life. Clearly, his ruse with the skunk had been a foolish, desperate plan.

  Suddenly he felt invisible fingers lift his hair: The wind had increased.

  Abruptly, the noxious stink slapped the soldiers and their mounts in the face with the force of a punch.

  Carlson didn’t need to signal a halt. As one, the Bluecoats reined in their mounts. Two horses shied violently, one soldier leaned sideways from his saddle and retched.

  It was an unwritten law of the frontier: Neither man nor beast challenged the skunk. The Bluecoats were no exception. After a hasty conference, one of them uncased a pair of field glasses. He quickly took a final look at the streamered lance.

  Then Carlson barked out a command, and they rode on to the north.

  Touch the Sky gave thanks to Maiyun. But even as he rode on, bearing southeast, stomach cramping from hunger, he couldn’t help wondering: Had he once again eluded a quick death only to suffer a slow one?

  ~*~

  He was no longer aware of the passing of time. By sheer force of habit, he rode when the sun was up, stopped when the last rays bled from the sky.

  By now the gnawing hunger had become a part of him. He could not think of a time when he had not felt it. His cheekbones, always
pronounced, now protruded like the cheeks of a skeleton. His ribs were as gaunt as barrel staves.

  From time to time he encountered green plums and serviceberries. He knew that some Indians would eat any insects they could find. The Cricket Eaters, or Digger tribe, could survive indefinitely on dried ants and their larvae. But when he dug a handful out of an anthill and tried to swallow some, he only retched it all back up.

  For long periods now his mind wandered as if through dream time. Again in memory he saw Honey Eater stepping out of Black Elk’s tipi, wearing her beaded bride-shawl. He saw Kristen Steele, her hair like spun-gold sunshine, waiting for him in the secret copse where they used to meet.

  Both gone, dead to him now. Two women from two different worlds—neither of which would let him be free.

  Another moon, another sun, another hungry ride while cobwebs of delirium tangled his thoughts. At some point he had begun cutting off the buckskin strings of his fringed leggings, slowly chewing them for their meager nourishment.

  Another sleep passed, and this time it was difficult to rise and get going.

  He was thoroughly lost, thoroughly hungry, thoroughly dispirited. As he trudged up a long rise in the late-afternoon sun, his hand drifted to the obsidian blade of his knife.

  He could fall on his knife now, and end it all quickly. The Cheyenne tribe did not consider suicide cowardly. In fact, a warrior who fell on his own knife to avoid suffering an unclean or undignified death was considered brave and was welcomed in the Land of Ghosts.

  He topped the rise. Stopped. Stared long and hard, his jaw slacking open.

  Suddenly, like sun bursting forth from rain-drenched heavens, Touch the Sky felt new hope rise within him. Below, reflecting silver in the glare, was a winding river swollen from rain and runoff. A choke point had formed at a sharp bend in the river, a spot where debris formed a powerful barrier.

  But this was not, Touch the Sky realized, just a river. Now he knew he was somehow on the right path to Medicine Lake—and that a major vision awaited him there. For this twisting, winding river was also the horse-devouring “snake” of his recent dreams—among the objects snared by the choke point were several dead mustangs!

  Chapter Nine

  “Even if he is riding as slow as an old squaw,” said Swift Canoe, “he should have arrived by now.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling nodded. “Perhaps Arrow Keeper gave him special instructions which have delayed him.”

  “Or perhaps,” said Swift Canoe, disappointment keen in his voice, “some enemy has done our work for us.”

  The two youths had made a camp high in the thickly wooded hills considered the center of the Cheyenne world. Below them, Medicine Lake reflected a deep blue in the morning sun. Only an occasional breeze wrinkled the mirror-smooth surface of the water. From here they could see down to the barren plains below.

  While they spoke, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had been examining the bark of a pine tree. High up in the tree, well beyond the Cheyenne’s reach, the bark had been clawed deep. This was true for trees all around the lake, he’d noticed. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling recognized the marks: It was the way a grizzly bear marked its territory and warned competitors away.

  All bears were wanderers, but the grizzly covered more territory than most. This bear might be nearby or clear across the hills. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling needed to know—the powerful grizzly was impossible to bring down with arrows or even most rifles. And its long, vicious claws made it the king of frontier predators. He had once seen a grizzly bring down a horse by hamstringing it with one swipe of its paws.

  But the Cheyenne was not just worried about their own safety. He also had a plan hatching—assuming Touch the Sky ever arrived.

  “Come,” he said to Swift Canoe. “We will check our snares for rabbits. Then we will circle the lake in case our fox slipped in during the night.”

  Today luck was with them. They had made their way down to the lake, leapfrogging from tree to tree. As Wolf Who Hunts Smiling bent at the water’s edge to drink, he spotted them off to his right: a set of long, narrow tracks made by an animal that had five toes and walked by setting its heel on the ground like a man.

  Grizzly tracks. And they were fresh, judging from the dampness still trapped inside them.

  “Brother,” he said in a low voice to Swift Canoe, “move carefully and quietly. Do not let the wind slip behind you.”

  Like the buffalo, the grizzly had weak eyesight but a keen sense of smell. In fact it was this keen sense of smell which Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had counted on when forming his plan.

  A child could have followed the signs. Besides the huge prints, they encountered several ravaged places where the bear had ripped up stumps to lick up the ants underneath. They soon began to hear the crashing of tree limbs and undergrowth, the occasional deep woofing grunts. They emerged cautiously from behind a deadfall and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling raised his head.

  “Stay where you are, brother,” he whispered, “or sing the Death Song!”

  But Swift Canoe needed no warning. Below them, reigning alone and supreme in a small clearing, was the largest, most ferocious-looking grizzly they had ever seen. It was a male, half again as high as the tallest Cheyenne in the tribe. It must have easily matched the weight of two fat ponies.

  Even as they watched, the huge, brownish-yellow monster raked its mark high on the bark of a tree. The grizzly was dish-faced, high in the shoulders. The white tips of its fur looked like frost and gave the bear its names, grizzly and silvertip.

  “Brother,” said Swift Canoe, awe in his voice, “we must be careful. Brother Bear is still hungry from his long winters sleep. I fear for our ponies.”

  “I have ears for this. We will smoke them in a cedar fire to disguise their smell.”

  But Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s face eased into a grin as his furtive, quick-darting eyes took in the grizzly’s every move.

  “What do you think, brother?” he said. “If Woman Face ever arrives, do you think brother bear should come around for a visit?”

  Swift Canoe stared at him, comprehension slowly dawning on his face.

  “But only think,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “Bears are easily lured by smell when the wind is right. They can be led just as one leads a dog.”

  “And this way, we do not spill Cheyenne blood.”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling grinned again. “Yes. And if Arrow Keeper sends braves to find the body of his favorite dog, they will find only a badly mauled corpse. We can fulfill Black Elk’s orders without sullying the Sacred Arrows.”

  Below, the grizzly sent a huge log flying into the trees with one careless swipe of its paw.

  ~*~

  Touch the Sky watched ominous rain clouds pile up on the horizon like huge black boulders.

  One part of him realized a terrible storm was coming on, that he ought to find shelter. The wind had picked up steadily, until the cottonwoods showed the light undersides of their leathery leaves. But another part of him was too exhausted and hungry to care.

  His hopes had surged when he discovered the river with the dead ponies—horrible though it was, the discovery had confirmed his medicine dream. He had been convinced, then, that he was on the right course to Medicine Lake. Now, with the river long behind him, he was again lost in wide-open, unfamiliar plains.

  And by now his hopes had ebbed. Had he actually even seen those dead horses in the river, or was it a trick of his failing mind? Or, if he had seen them, that snake-devouring-horses image was surely a false vision, placed over his eyes by enemy magic to torment him. Perhaps a Pawnee shaman was behind it, exacting revenge for the blood he had shed.

  He slogged on, mechanically chewing on the last of his buckskin fringes. His pony limped now, and he knew he should check her hooves for lodged pebbles. But the thought kept fading before he could act on it.

  Lightning suddenly spider-webbed the sky, jagged, bone-white tines that speared down from the clouds to the earth.

  A sudden wind gust almost stoppe
d the grays forward motion.

  Thunder muttered, gathered rolling force, crack-boomed through the heavens in a thousand crashing echoes.

  The first heavy raindrops hurtled downward, cold spikes that nailed the sky to the earth.

  At first the wind and rain felt good, reviving some of Touch the Sky’s energy. Then it began to pour down in earnest—great, gray, driving sheets of wind-lashed rain which stung his face.

  Within minutes his horse was nearly mired in mud. Each hoof came up slowly, making wet sucking noises as they pulled clear of the mud.

  She stumbled, slipped, nearly went down. Touch the Sky could see nothing around him now, just the gray curtain of rain. Desperately he tried to spot some sort of sheltered place.

  Purely by chance the gray practically stumbled into a small coulee. The walls had been eroded back by wind and time, providing some shelter. Perhaps, had he been more clearheaded, Touch the Sky would have thought better of taking such low ground in this heavy rain. But all he wanted was to get somewhere where he could open his eyes again.

  If anything, the force of the rain increased after he and the gray had pressed in tight against one wall of the coulee. Only spray reached them here, driven on the wind gusts.

  When he first heard a new sound of rumbling, Touch the Sky thought it was more thunder gathering.

  Then, when it grew steadily louder, vibrating the ground, he thought of the rock slide which had buried the Pawnee. Only when it was too late did he realize he was about to be engulfed by a flash flood.

  A huge, foaming-white gout of water swept around a turn just ahead of him in the coulee. It bore down on him with inexorable speed and power, allowing him no time to run.

  It felt like a powerful fist pummeling his head when the water slammed into him. It lifted Touch the Sky and his pony like debris and swept them along the coulee. The Cheyenne saw the sky and the walls of the coulee all tumbling together, felt himself bobbing along like the floater stick of an underwater beaver trap.