Renegade Justice Page 7

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Her father never visited her room unless it was something serious.

  “Yes, Pa?”

  “You dressed?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Well, put some clothes on. Then come out front. I got something to say to you.”

  Kristen’s brow furrowed in a frown of confusion. Her father’s voice was low, composed, calm—frighteningly so.

  •She put the letters away and waited a few minutes until her breathing was under control. But her pulse quickened again when she found that Carlson too was waiting in the front parlor, seated in a ladderback chair. He rose smartly when she entered, trying to keep the injured side of his face out of her sight.

  “Miss Hanchon. I hope you’re well?”

  “As well as a body can be when she’s tugged out of bed.”

  Despite her bravado, Kristen was so scared her limbs trembled. Her father was being oddly polite and formal with her. Some disaster loomed, and she knew by now that it had something to do with her forbidden visit to the Hanchons. But despite being prepared, she felt his next words with the force of hard slaps.

  “Did you have a good time with your friend Matthew Hanchon today?”

  “I—I don’t—”

  Warm blood rushed into her face and she blushed deep to the roots of her hair. What her father was suggesting was a lie, but the shock of the confrontation made her feel guilty.

  Steele read his daughter’s blush as a confession. Rage sparked in his eyes for a moment. Then they went dull and flat and calculating.

  Carlson too read her blush as a confession. Indignant anger welled up inside him. Wasn’t she always high-hatting him and looking down her nose like she was quality goods? Yet here she was, admitting to consorting with a savage redskin!

  “It crosses my mind more and more lately,” said Hiram, “how easy a young girl can go astray out here in the wilderness. Especially a young girl without a mother or older sisters to guide her.”

  When her father actually smiled, Kristen knew she faced a crisis.

  “Lieutenant Carlson has requested the honor of your hand in marriage. I’ve given my blessing to the union.”

  Carlson started and moved to the edge of his chair, then settled back again and assumed a poker face. Steele winked at him, then turned to his daughter again.

  “Wha’d’you say to that, girl? Think you’ll be a good Army wife?”

  Kristen’s mouth felt dry and stuffed with cotton. She swallowed hard.

  “I’ve never given it any thought.”

  She was staring at Carlson as she said this. Some of his former servility returned to his tone as he said, “Your pa’s not trying to sell you a bill of goods tonight, of course. You’ll want time to think on it.”

  Her icy tone strained her father’s smile, but he only widened it before he said, “Well, you best start thinking about it. The day’s coming quick when you’re gonna have to choose. Life as an officer’s wife on the frontier, or moving back to Providence to stay with my sister Thelma.”

  A shudder moved up Kristen’s spine like a cold finger. She recalled her spinster Aunt Thelma’s talcumed face and stale-as-dust old-lady smell.

  “It’ll have to be one or the other,” said Steele. “A white girl that hobnobs with murdering redskins is wanting looking after.”

  “Murdering! Matthew Hanchon is no murderer!”

  “Who do you think killed Boone Wilson, the Queen of England?”

  “If he did, it was self-defense, not murder.”

  “When a daughter of mine,” said Steele,, “takes up with Indians against her own people, that’s the day I wish I’d died as a child. You’re going to make up your mind and make it up quick. Either you marry Seth Carlson or you move to your Aunt Thelma’s. And you better write this on your pillowcase. If I hear of you visiting the Hanchon spread or meeting with that redskin bastard of theirs again, you’ll have to get married because you sure’s hell won’t have a home here!”

  Chapter Eight

  His eyelids eased open from deep sleep. At first, before the last cobwebs of slumber were swept from his eyes, Touch the Sky didn’t recognize where he was.

  He saw a wall of wind-bent juniper trees slightly below him on the sloping ground, felt the dew in the grass where his arms lay outside of his buffalo robe. The weak light and warmth of the sun told him it was still early. Then he suddenly remembered everything and rolled over to wake Little Horse. But his friend’s robe was empty.

  And less than a pace from Touch the Sky stood a Bluecoat officer!

  He recalled the warning the corporal had given him yesterday: We got orders to shoot all Cheyennes on sight!

  Instinctively one of Touch the Sky’s hands patted the doeskin pouch on his breechclout. It held the badger claws Arrow Keeper told him were the magic totem of his clan.

  His medicine bundle was safe. The very same moment, remembering not to signal his intention in his eyes, he kicked his robe aside and rolled hard into the Bluecoat intruder’s legs.

  The officer fell heavily, cursing, then rolled free with amazing quickness and strength. Touch the Sky leaped after him and wrestled him down again. They grappled, rolling through the wet grass, crashing through small bushes.

  The Cheyenne finally slipped a powerful choke-hold on his adversary. The next moment he felt an explosion of fiery pain as the pony soldier brought a short but accurate knee thrust up into his groin. This loosened his choke, but he refused to let the soldier squirm out from under him.

  For a moment they were locked eyeball to eyeball, both gasping for breath as they struggled for dominance. The Cheyenne’s face was an impassive mask except for the determined slit of his mouth. The Bluecoat’s face, in contrast, twisted into a fierce scowl.

  The soldier slumped under him for a moment, and Touch the Sky managed to slip the obsidian knife from its sheath. Despite the shoot-to-kill order, however, he couldn’t bring himself to plunge the blade home. The Bluecoat wore a sidearm but had not once tried to draw it. A Cheyenne was honor-bound to keep the sacred Medicine Arrows forever sweet and clean by killing only those who tried to kill him.

  When Touch the Sky suddenly raised the knife, the Bluecoat’s eyes mirrored fear.

  The Cheyenne hurled the knife, point first, into the ground just beside the officer’s head.

  “Christ on a mule! Get off him, Matthew, you tarnal fool! That’s Tom Riley!”

  In his excitement, Corey forgot to use his friend’s Cheyenne name. Now he burst out from the trees above them, still tucking in his shirttail after relieving himself.

  At the same moment, Little Horse stepped out past the tree line carrying a pair of dead rabbits. He saw the Bluecoat and Touch the Sky, still apparently engaged in combat, before he spotted Corey. He dropped the game and raced toward them, unsheathing his knife.

  “No, brother!” said Touch the Sky in Cheyenne. “He is Firetop’s friend!”

  Little Horse managed to avert his knife. But he had too much momentum going to avoid colliding with the two on the ground. Moments later all three rose from the tangled confusion of arms and legs.

  Corey swooped double in sudden laughter.

  “Ain’t you three a fine pack of scrappers! You look like a bug with too many legs!”

  “I told you to wake him up first,” said Riley. He picked up his bent-brim hat and slapped the dust off it. His sunburned face turned even redder as he flushed with sheepishness. “I tried to tell you,” he said to Touch the Sky, “but you wouldn’t let me catch my wind.”

  “Touch the Sky, this is Tom Riley. Though I reckon you two’ve already met. Tom, this here is Touch the Sky’s friend Little Horse. He don’t speak English.”

  Riley knew enough about Plains Indians customs not to be offended when neither man looked him square in the eye. He caught himself before he offered his hand.

  “Your pa told us where you planned to camp,” Corey said to Touch the Sky. “Tom’s got some news. Bad news.”

&n
bsp; While Little Horse dressed out the rabbits and roasted them on a green stick, Riley explained what he had overheard at the fort when Corey was riding north to Yellow Bear’s camp. It was no surprise, of course, that Hiram Steele was involved in the treachery against the Hanchons. And John Hanchon had already told his adopted son that Seth Carlson was involved. But now, Riley made it clear, the commanding officer of the powerful 7th Cavalry had accepted their “Indian menace” tale—meaning it was not just Steele and his hardcase gunmen they had to fight, but the U.S. Army as well.

  “I’m trying to prize out what information I can,” said Riley. “I like your ma and pa. They’ve worked hard to make a good living and to make this valley a decent place to live. It puts blood in my eyes to see the big nabobs like Hiram Steele doing dirt on them. Corey told me all about what Steele and Carlson did to you. Tell you the truth, you had every right to stick that knife in me a few minutes ago. Though I’m damn glad you didn’t!”

  “Tom’s got an idea,” said Corey. “He’s off duty today, but his superiors have got him on maneuvers in the field all around this area and further north. It’s hard for him to get word to me quick when he learns something at the fort. So he says we should rig up a way for him to leave messages nearby.”

  Touch the Sky nodded, then briefly translated for Little Horse.

  “These men we’re fighting,” said Touch the Sky to Corey and Riley, “aren’t Steele’s usual wranglers. They blacked their faces for war against my people before they ever rode into this valley.”

  He explained about the whiskey seller Henri Lagace and his crew of mercenaries, who had scattered after the Cheyenne raid on their mountain stronghold. Riley nodded, recognizing the name.

  “That bunch is wanted for a series of murders and robberies up in the Northern Territory. Crimes they tried to pin on the Cheyennes. So some of ’em are working for Steele? That means they’re safe from any law around here.”

  “Any white man’s law,” said Touch the Sky grimly. “They have killed my people. My battle axe is raised against them until death.”

  “Maybe,” said Riley, “but you and your friend will be damn lucky to keep your hide, let alone skin anybody else. It’s not just Steele’s riffraff you’re up against. I heard all about how Carlson made a fool of himself yesterday in front of his men, trying to put you under. As sure as hell’s afire he’ll be looking behind every stone and bush for you two.”

  He again mentioned the need for a system to leave messages. When Touch the Sky translated to Little Horse, he nodded and signaled everyone to follow him. They moved up into the trees and followed a deer run, skirting wide at one point to avoid a patch of trees which had been obliterated by a rock slide. Little Horse stopped at a leather-leaved cottonwood with a fork split deep by lightning.

  “That’s the gait,” said Riley to Touch the Sky. “Check that fork daily for messages. And be careful ’cause Carlson’s got sentries posted night and day up on Thompson’s Bluff, watching the road into your pa’s spread.”

  Touch the Sky nodded. In fact he and Little Horse had already spotted the sentries. Which meant, Touch the Sky reminded himself, that there was a good chance Hiram Steele knew his daughter had been with the Hanchons and their “savage” boy.

  “I’ve got to make tracks now,” said Riley. “But I’ll be in contact.”

  Now Touch the Sky permitted himself to meet the young brevet officer’s gaze. “Why do you risk trouble for yourself helping us?”

  Riley shrugged. “Maybe it’ll be turnabout someday. I got kin back East want to come out here. First we need more settlers like your ma and pa, not like Hiram Steele.”

  Riley and Corey returned to the camp for their horses. Touch the Sky and Little Horse worked their way cautiously down to the river, staying out of sight. The two Cheyennes stripped and bathed in the ice-cold water, then lay in the warming sun to dry. Sandpipers waded along the shore, magpies screamed, woodpeckers kept up a steady rat-a-tat from the trees overhead.

  At one point, hearing the distant heave-ho cadence of boatmen, the two scrambled up the bank and hid in the thickets while a keelboat floated by. A blunderbuss was mounted on a swivel in the prow, and the deck was crowded with crates of whiskey and rifles. Though the river was full, they were traveling against the current and there was no favoring wind. Six men lined each side of the flat-bottomed boat, using long wooden poles to propel it.

  “More trouble for the red man,” said Little Horse.

  His remark reminded both of them, again, that they were up against a ruthless enemy.

  “Brother,” said Little Horse, “I would speak with you.”

  “You know that I have ears for it.”

  “Just now, as you were grappling with the Bluecoat? He pushed your hair far back off your forehead and I noticed the mark. Why have you not spoken of this thing?”

  Touch the Sky was silent at first, though he knew well what mark Little Horse meant: In the hair just above his left temple, buried past the hairline, was a mulberry-colored birthmark shaped like an arrowhead—the traditional mark of the Cheyenne warrior.

  “Brother,” insisted Little Horse, “what does this thing mean?”

  Again Touch the Sky held his silence, unsure how to speak or even what to say. Would Little Horse believe him if he repeated what Arrow Keeper insisted: that Touch the Sky was the long-lost son of Running Antelope, a great young chief of the Northern Cheyennes who was killed in a Bluecoat ambush?

  When Touch the Sky said nothing, Little Horse only shook his head. “The hand of Maiyun is in this thing,” he said quietly. “That mark means we will face many battles. If we must die, brother, let it be after we kill these paleface devils who attacked our tribe and now attack your white clan!”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had always claimed that Touch the Sky was secretly a spy for the Bluecoats. And although he pretended to agree, in fact Swift Canoe had always doubted this.

  He had cause enough to hate this white man’s “Cheyenne.” Had he not caused the death of Swift Canoe’s twin brother, True Son?

  So it shocked him now as, hidden with River of Winds, they watched Touch the Sky and Little Horse making medicine with a Bluecoat!

  The two Cheyenne spies had missed the earlier struggle, still searching for the camp after locating Little Horse and Touch the Sky’s tethered ponies. Now all they saw was an earnest discussion between Touch the Sky and the officer.

  Touch the Sky translated for Little Horse, and Swift Canoe said, “Did you hear, brother? They are talking about leaving messages for each other! Touch the Sky and this murdering white dog! Wolf Who Hunts Smiling spoke the straight word all along! He is a spy!”

  River of Winds, who was several winters older than Swift Canoe and far less fiery-tempered, frowned. Keeping his voice low like Swift Canoe, he said, “Do not wade in before you look, Cheyenne. We do not know what this meeting means. Firetop knows this long knife—would you deny that Firetop saved our tribe? And it was Touch the Sky who rode for him when he saved us. Why would our enemy do this thing for us? Why not let the Pawnee destroy us?”

  Swift Canoe stubbornly shook his head. “Perhaps he has become their spy since then. Perhaps Firetop now works for Bluecoat gold and has turned his heart to stone toward us.”

  They followed as the two Indians and two whites went upridge to select the lightning-split cottonwood. Then Firetop and the Bluecoat returned to camp and rode off. The spies from Yellow Bear’s camp followed their fellow Cheyennes as they cautiously worked their way down toward the river.

  They hid in a deep swale while Touch the Sky and Little Horse bathed.

  “Brother,” said Swift Canoe, “I ask only this. Once you have seen enough to convince you Touch the Sky is a double-tongued spy, let me kill him then and there.”

  “What, and would you kill Little Horse too? You will not kill one without killing the other. Even if, as you claim, Touch the Sky has stained the Sacred Arrows by causing True Son’s death, you have no right to punish Little
Horse. He must then go before the councilors.”

  Swift Canoe was silent at this rebuke, resenting it but knowing the older warrior was right.

  Still, there would surely come a moment when Little Horse and Touch the Sky were separated, thought Swift Canoe. The warrior wanted once and for all to end the taunts and sly remarks of other Cheyenne bucks, who had begun to mock both him and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling as empty boasters. Once his enemy was proven a spy, the tribe would honor him for killing Touch the Sky.

  “As you say, brother,” he said. “We will wait and watch.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Powder always ran swift and cold early in the warm moons. Shivering, her naked, coltish body dappled with gooseflesh, Honey Eater stepped up onto the grassy bank and dried off with handfuls of willow leaves.

  The biting cold of the river, and a cool sting in the early morning air, had left her teeth chattering. But she welcomed the slap to her senses after another sleepless night’s vigil with her ailing father.

  Well hidden behind the wall of tall rushes which marked off the women’s bathing area, she slipped into her moccasins and a dress made of soft kid leather. Her wet hair was unbraided now and hung in long black tresses.

  Then she lingered for a long moment, her pretty, finely sculpted face sad with the weight of her problems. Touch the Sky was gone, and her father was about to leave her too! Honey Eater could not muster the usual happiness of the snow-melting season. Instead, she felt only the haunting, hollow sadness of loss that she always felt in the Moon When the Geese Fly South when the trees were shaking off their leaves.

  The first thing she noticed, when she stepped past the wall of rushes, was the Lakota camp. It was well downstream on the opposite bank. Already, as in the Cheyenne camp, smoke curled from the top-holes of the tipis. They were constructed almost exactly like those of their Cheyenne cousins. But the more modest Cheyennes included a flap over the entrance to ensure privacy.

  Honey Eater welcomed the presence of Chief Sun Dance and his Lakotas. Their warriors were fierce, their ponies swift. Several Lakotas had married into Yellow Bear’s tribe, and Honey Eater knew of Cheyennes living with Sun Dance’s people. The two tribes would fight to the death for each other.