Arrow Keeper Read online

  She lost her thoughts when another owl hooted, even closer than the last. Nearby, yet another owl replied, almost as if signaling. Honey Eater frowned. A sudden premonition of danger moved up her spine in a cool tickle. She slipped her buckskin dress over her slim shoulders and silently lifted the hide flap over the tipi’s entrance.

  Moonlight limned the camp in a silver-white glow like brittle frost. From her family’s tipi, which sat on a lone hummock between the river and the rest of camp, she could see the dark mass of trees on the riverbank, the cone-shaped tipis, the darker, larger masses of the lodges. All was quiet and peaceful.

  She was about to lower the flap and return to her robes when the night sky suddenly rained fire. It started with one lone orange streak that arced across the sky from the direction of the trees behind the corral. At first, she thought it was a brilliant falling star, one that came closer to the camp than most. Then she heard the hard, familiar thwap of an arrowhead embedding itself in a target. A moment later, the council lodge was in flames, and more fire was raining down on the camp. Flaming arrows whipped past overhead by the dozens, lodging in tipis, panicking ponies, lighting the entire camp in a strange orange glow.

  Honey Eater screamed at the same moment a surprised sentry sounded the wolf howl of danger, shattering the quiet. Horses nickered in fright and crashed through the corral in a thunder of hooves; braves, many still naked, stumbled from their tipis. Their first priority, even before they knew who their attackers were, was to form a line of defense so the women, children, and elders could escape.

  As the enemy poured out from the trees in the eerie firelight, Honey Eater recognized the dreaded Pawnee! Her heart skipped a beat. All Cheyenne women knew full well what these evil, cricket-eating marauders did to female captives.

  Gunfire and shouting rang out with deafening intensity. Yellow Bear had already stumbled past his daughter to direct the warriors. When Singing Woman ran out, still wrapping her blanket, she grasped her daughter’s arm and started to lead her toward the others fleeing to a prearranged escape route downriver.

  The next moment, her mother stumbled to one side as if she’d been violently tugged. Then she dropped like a stone, blood pumping in thick jets where a lead ball had just shattered her skull.

  Watching her mother die before her eyes shocked Honey Eater into immobility. She stood rooted, even though the Pawnee were entering the camp, the firelight reflecting blood in their wild eyes. Their faces and shaved skulls were painted vermillion and ocher, their bodies smudged with ashes. They had been made brave and reckless by drinking the white man’s strong water. The kind the Pawnee warriors liked was traded from the unlicensed whites who added things to the devil water—things that made the Indians even crazier when drunk.

  And they were surely crazy that night, Honey Eater saw from their fierce and relentless attack. Armed with bows, lances, clubs, knives, battle-axes, and tomahawks, the Pawnee cut down everything in their path.

  The Cheyenne warriors—and even some boys and old men—met the attack bravely. No Cheyenne ever expected to survive if he were attacked before he could dress and paint and make an offering to the sacred Medicine Arrows. Yet, with only death to look forward to, they held fast to save the tribe.

  Yellow Bear, his white hair flying like a mane, grabbed the lance of a fallen warrior. He tried to run forward. But two elderly headmen, knowing chaos would descend on the tribe if he were killed, restrained him. They forced him to retreat with them toward the escape trail, gathering children along the way.

  Dead ponies lay everywhere, and Cheyenne braves used them as breastworks to stem the attack. While Honey Eater watched the skirmish, War Bonnet stood up to throw his lance at an attacker. But before the lance could leave his hand, a double-bladed throwing axe opened up War Bonnet’s chest and dropped him in his tracks, a bloody geyser spouting from his breastbone.

  Abruptly the fierce Cheyenne war cry sounded close in her ears. “Hiya hi-i-i-ya!” And the warrior called Black Elk led a counter charge. He leaped toward a Pawnee brave, cracking him over the head with his lance to count first coup before he killed his enemy. Black Elk was fierce and magnificent in his wrath, and his counter attack roused his brothers to heroic deeds. As the Pawnee fell, young Cheyenne boys bravely darted forward to snatch up their weapons.

  As the entire camp blazed with an eerie ghost-light, old Medicine Bottle picked up a crying child, then grabbed the stunned girl’s hand and led her toward the river escape point. Buffalo-hide rafts had been stashed in the event of an attack. The elders and the smallest children were being floated across by young boys big enough to swim.

  But while he fled with Honey Eater and the child, Medicine Bottle took an arrow flush through the neck and fell, dropping the child. Finally prodded back into action by the old man’s sacrifice, Honey Eater sprang forward and scooped the infant into her arms. She ran toward the river as the Cheyenne braves waged a retreating battle all around her.

  No rafts were available when she reached the bank of the Powder. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was armed with the Colt rifle that he had taken from the newcomer. He had been ordered to protect the river escape route with his life. But with all his heart, he yearned to prove himself in the main battle.

  Children who had just seen their parents killed stood naked and wailing, and old grandmothers tried to comfort them. Honey Eater held the child close to her breast, and the image of her own mother falling dead raced through her mind.

  The river was swollen and fast from the spring melt. On the opposite shore, two boys were desperately unloading a raft so they could guide it back across. But Honey Eater glanced at the horrible scene behind her and realized that the Pawnee attackers were getting closer. If they reached the river, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling could never stop all of them.

  In the middle of the camp, one of the Pawnee held a young, screaming Cheyenne woman down while another savagely raped her. Honey Eater recognized the girl as Morning Star of the Eagle clan, who had often served with her as a maid of honor for the Sun Dance ceremony. When the Pawnee’s lust was sated, he gutted her with his knife.

  At Honey Eater’s side, an old woman named Rain Necklace said to her, “Prepare yourself for the Land of Ghosts, little daughter!” Then she began chanting the Death Song.

  Despite the danger pressing closer, Honey Eater could not bring herself to chant the final words of her life. Instead, she tugged at a thong around her neck, pulling a small knife out from under her dress. All Cheyenne women wore one just like it night and day. It would be used to kill the child and herself if capture seemed inevitable.

  “Prepare yourself to die, little daughter!” the old grandmother urged her again.

  Honey Eater tasted the squalling infant’s tears even as she tightened her grip on the knife.

  Arrow Keeper and Matthew rode hard without stopping to sleep. Eating while they rode, they paused only briefly to rest and water the horses. Once they were forced to shelter in the lee of a mesa during a brief but violent windstorm. They made the return to Yellow Bear’s camp in half the time they had taken to make the journey to Medicine Lake.

  But Yellow Bear’s camp was no longer recognizable. Most of the tipis and lodges lay in blackened ruins. The ponies that weren’t missing from the ruined corrals lay dead everywhere, already bloating and starting to draw dark swarms of flies. The camp was terrifying and heartrending. Wailing over their dead braves, squaws sat bloodied from gouging themselves with sharp flints. All of the surviving warriors had cut short their hair for the dead. Those suffering extreme grief had gashed themselves with knives until blood streamed freely from the wounds.

  His voice as sad as his eyes, Yellow Bear described the raid to Arrow Keeper. The outcome would have been even worse, the old chief assured him, if a Sioux hunting party had not been camped nearby. Hearing the battle sounds, they rode in and scattered the surprised Pawnee.

  Matthew stood rooted in the middle of camp. He was overwhelmed by the suffering and death surrounding him
. Since the raid, the dead had been washed and dressed in new moccasins for their journey to the Land of Ghosts. But not all the screams came from mourners. A Pawnee prisoner was lashed to the same wagon wheel he recognized from his own torture session. Embers glowed beneath the Pawnee, and the sickly sweet stink of scorched flesh filled the camp. Nearby, another prisoner sat lashed to a tree. He was just conscious enough to watch ravenous dogs feed on the warm intestines that had been pulled through the slit in his gut.

  His heart thudding loudly in his ears, Matthew wandered the devastated camp until he spotted Honey Eater. She was helping an old squaw prepare Singing Woman’s body. It had already been washed and wrapped in deerskin and soon would be hauled to its burial scaffold. Once high in place, she would be wrapped tightly in buffalo skins.

  Matthew’s gaze met Honey Eater’s long enough to give him a sharp pang of pity and sorrow at the grief in her eyes. But mixed with that feeling was a glimmer of hope. For he could see that she was relieved to see him alive again.

  When Matthew turned away, he ran into Black Elk, who had witnessed their exchange of glances. The jealous young brave scowled fiercely at him. Then he approached the group of headmen and braves gathered around the Chief and Arrow Keeper.

  “Fathers! Brothers! Hear me well! When did Black Elk ever show the white feather to an enemy? Did he ever hide in his tipi while his brothers were on the warpath? No! Count his scalps, count his war feathers! Black Elk swears the scalps of those who did these things will hang on our lodge-poles.”

  Yellow Bear heard Black Elk’s words in silence. Then he turned to Arrow Keeper. The old chief’s eyes were sad with a grief too great to express. He too had hacked off his hair.

  “Was not Singing Woman the soul of my medicine bag? Twice now have I lost good wives to my enemies. I have fought on the plains and on the icy slopes of the Wolf Mountains. Long now have I sung the songs of peace like the friendly Ponca. Long now have I counseled my young men not to dance the war dance. But from this time forward my heart is a stone. There is no soft spot left in it!”

  “I have ears for this talk,” Black Elk approved, his dark eyes fierce. Again Matthew stared in gruesome fascination at the angry, crooked scar where Black Elk’s ear had been sewn back on. “Yellow Bear speaks of the peaceful Ponca. Do they not raise corn and gardens and cows? And yet, are they not constantly raided and attacked just as we were attacked here? Women live in peace and grow gardens. True braves hunt and fight. Give me warriors, Father, and I will avenge Yellow Bear’s people.”

  Yellow Bear met Black Elk’s declaration with a silent nod. Unfortunately, he knew, revenge would be a difficult matter. Cheyenne trackers reported that the fleeing Pawnee had cleverly stuck to a buffalo run, where their tracks would be obscured by stampeding herds. Even more discouraging was the fact that precious few braves were left in the Cheyenne tribe.

  “Yellow Bear cannot give Black Elk warriors,” the old chief finally said. “Instead of tall trees, I have only acorns.”

  Yellow Bear’s tired eyes prowled the devastated camp as if painting a memory for eternity. For a moment, his eyes lingered on young Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, who stood near his cousin Black Elk.

  Then Matthew was startled when the tribe leader’s gaze fell on him. “I have only acorns,” he repeated. “But acorns become trees. Black Elk will take charge of all the bucks who have twelve winters or more, but are not yet blooded warriors. He will train them well and quickly. For until he does so, our clan circles are unprotected.”

  Black Elk’s eyes showed a fierce but dignified pride when he received the important order. But he too glanced again at Matthew. It had not escaped his notice that the newcomer’s arrival had been suspiciously close to the time of the attack. Could the spy have left secret messages for the Pawnee in the forks of nearby trees?

  “All the bucks?” Black Elk demanded, scowling at Matthew.

  Arrow Keeper gave a determined nod to the chief. “All,” Yellow Bear said.

  Black Elk exchanged a secret, knowing glance with his young cousin. Both then stared hard at Matthew.

  “As you say, Father,” said Black Elk. “But perhaps not all will survive the hard training.”

  Chapter Ten

  Soon the last bodies were placed on scaffolds deep in the forest. With the mournful sound of chanting in the background, the surviving headmen met in outdoor council with Yellow Bear and Arrow Keeper. Although the sacred Medicine Arrows had not been harmed when Medicine Bottle’s tipi burned, the men of the tribe unanimously agreed that too much death had left bad medicine at their present camp.

  In the Moon When the Green Grass Is Up, Yellow Bear’s tribe moved west and resettled in the Tongue River valley. They selected a vast, grassy site halfway between the Powder and the Rosebud and just north of the Bighorn Mountains. Since the new camp was in wild mustang country, the tribe quickly began to gather a new pony herd.

  Matthew and old Arrow Keeper hacked short their hair like the others, cropping it unevenly with sharp skinning knives. But Matthew’s gesture of sympathy was scorned by Black Elk, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, and many braves who still mistrusted him.

  The warrior training began in earnest after the tribe’s move. Black Elk divided the youths into several groups of five, assigning a full warrior to take charge of each group. He himself took charge of his cousin Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, Matthew, a small, quiet boy named Little Horse, and twin brothers named Swift Canoe and True Son.

  From the beginning, Matthew was mercilessly humiliated and scorned. Within his hearing, the others refused to call each other by name, which meant they thought he was no better than a white man. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling also refused to call him by the Cheyenne name Arrow Keeper had given him. Instead, he contemptuously called him White Man’s Shoes or How-Do-You-Do, referring to the way he had greeted War Bonnet on the day he was taken prisoner. In uglier moods, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling called him Woman Face, because occasionally Matthew still let fear or other emotions show.

  Though he was older than the others, Matthew was painfully aware that he was by far the most ignorant and useless. He was treated as a menial servant by Black Elk. He was ordered to keep the skins filled with fresh river water, to gather wood, to build and tend the fires, and to stand watch more often than the others. He received the same bits of meat fed to dogs back in camp and was forced to ride behind the others, choking on their dust. He was even ordered to make bullets, which was considered woman’s work back at the Tongue River camp.

  Swift Canoe and True Son feared and admired Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. They quickly became his surly imitators. But Little Horse, whose medicine sign was the bloodstone, was more reserved around Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. Unlike the others, he was quiet, never boastful. Perhaps, thought Matthew, he was modest because he was smaller than the other boys. But he was swift and sure in his movements, with the staying power of a fresh, strong pony. And unlike the others, he was not a complainer.

  Although Little Horse quietly refused to join in the constant harassment and humiliation of Matthew, he would not meet the tall stranger’s eye or offer a sign of friendship. To him, Matthew was an embarrassment. It was best to simply pretend he did not exist.

  Black Elk did not respect—or trust—Matthew enough to permit him to carry his own weapons. Only his respect for Arrow Keeper’s magic prevented him from letting Wolf Who Hunts Smiling murder the spy, which was, after all, the council’s original decision. So only when actually practicing movements and techniques for battle, would the intruder briefly handle weapons. One day Black Elk saw Matthew staring at the rifle that had once been his. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling caught him and laughed, daring him to try to get it back.

  Occasionally, when they were well away from the main camp, Black Elk’s little band would harass small details of soldiers guarding wagons on their way to nearby Soldier Towns. After these practice forays, Black Elk and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling would berate Matthew mercilessly. The newcomer had learned the basic art of riding bareback. Bu
t he could not freely gallop the spirited dun Arrow Keeper had given him. Nor could he perform any of the riding stunts the others had mastered.

  Clinging low to his black pony’s neck, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling could rapidly swing his body from side to side at a full gallop. He could also lean down low to scoop up fallen comrades or weapons without breaking stride. When Matthew attempted such tricks, he ended up on the ground, stunned and humiliated.

  Matthew suffered the same burning embarrassment when practicing shooting arrows at a gallop. Black Elk had shown the younger Indians how to charge in full battle style with lances up, bows strung, and rifles at the ready. A good Cheyenne warrior, boasted Black Elk, could string and launch ten arrows in the time it took a Bluecoat to fire and reload a carbine.

  Matthew had noticed back in camp how little Cheyenne boys often played war with miniature bows and arrows. He, in contrast, had never handled a bow in his life and was all thumbs at first. He could not fit the tri-feathered arrows tipped with inch-long flint heads chipped to fine points into the bow quickly—not while also concentrating on his galloping pony. If he did manage to launch one, it always flew wide of the target.

  There seemed no end to his abysmal ignorance. One evening in camp, Black Elk handed him a whetstone and a knife, its handle carved from the leg bone of an elk. He ordered him to hone the blade until it would slice hard leather. Matthew was determined to do a good job. But one side of the knife was dull beyond belief. He worked for hours, late into the night beside the dying embers, sharpening both sides of the blade to a deadly edge.

  The next morning, Black Elk threw the ruined weapon into a stream. Even a rabbit, he raged, had brains enough to know that Indians sharpened their knives on one edge only!

  Countless such mistakes made Matthew realize his foolishness and deeply regret not listening to old Knobby’s warnings back in Bighorn Falls. But there were rare moments when the rest of Black Elk’s little band simply ignored the outsider, and he could perfect his new skills without fear of being ridiculed.