Vision Quest Page 8

  It was.

  They dragged the bleeding fawn to a high ridge located between Touch the Sky’s cave and the prowling grizzly. The wind, a stiff, steady breeze, was directly behind them now.

  From this high ground they could see the huge, yellow-brown grizzly, though the nearly blind bear could not possibly spot them. They watched it rise, sniff the air, then stand rooted as the breeze wafted the smell of the bleeding fawn.

  “Brother,” said Swift Canoe triumphantly, “he has fixed on the smell. And have you ever seen a bear this huge?”

  “Hurry!” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling as the dish-faced monster began lumbering toward them. Lugging the bloody carcass between them, they raced back toward the entrance of Touch the Sky’s cave. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling drew another arrow, ready to kill him if they woke him up. But they managed to leave the fawn just inside the dark cave entrance without alarming the sleeping Cheyenne within.

  Then they raced away like a pair of scalded dogs, heading for the safe vantage point of their camp.

  “Brother,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, “it is like stealing eggs from a nest on the ground.”

  “True. The very sight of Brother Bear at his cave entrance will turn Woman Face Wendigo!”

  ~*~

  Once again Touch the Sky slept a deep, dreamless sleep as his body regained some of its depleted strength.

  But at first, when a deep, angry bellow woke him like a kick to the face, he was convinced he was indeed dreaming: A gigantic grizzly, its curved claws dripping gobbets of bloody meat, nearly filled the entrance to the cave!

  Touch the Sky had placed his robe near the back of the cave. Now he reflexively pressed even tighter against the wall, his heart leaping into his throat.

  He spotted the fawn, now tossed aside in the bear’s rage as it encountered the overpowering smell of a human. Perhaps it had intended to cache it here. Had the Cheyenne, after all, mistakenly selected a bear’s den?

  But that was impossible, he thought—there had been no smells or other obvious signs of animal occupation. And though they were still early in the warm moons, it was too late for a grizzly to be emerging from its hibernation-like sleep.

  Still—clearly this one was mean and ravenous as a bear waking from its winter sleep. Many grizzlies had experience with white hunters and had come to hate humans. Now, as this one pressed even closer to the frightened Cheyenne, Touch the Sky spotted a gnarled scar where a bullet had caught the bear high on the chest.

  Touch the Sky’s scalp was sweating, fear had turned his limbs to stone. A paw swiped past his face, only inches away. He knew those hard-as-steel claws could rip a horse open in one swipe.

  Again the grizzly’s angry bellow, another pass of the lethal claws. The wind from the near miss fanned Touch the Sky’s face. He could smell the bear’s stinking breath every time it bellowed.

  Luckily, however, the cave was apparently too small as it tapered toward the rear. Touch the Sky felt a little strength returning to his limbs as this fact sank in. The grizzly could fit only its head, forelegs, and part of its high shoulders past the entrance.

  But clearly he was trapped here so long as the bear chose to remain.

  Desperately he eyed his weapons. As always, he had slept with them close to hand. But his bow would be useless in such tight quarters, he didn’t even have room to draw the string back. His throwing ax and knife would be equally useless, like attacking Bluecoat artillery with rocks.

  Besides—a grizzly was almost impossible to kill without a huge-bore rifle.

  The bear grunted as it squeezed even tighter into the entrance. Its eyes were charged with blood lust.

  The claws barely missed him this time. On the second swipe, they caught the edge of the buffalo robe and shredded it.

  Touch the Sky pressed flat against the cool stone wall of the small cave. The smell of the grizzly was overpowering, its breath hot and moist on his bare skin.

  He tried to fight down his panic so he could think. Now he recalled Arrow Keeper’s stories about Cheyenne who had made medicine talk to animals, taming them and even becoming their friends in the wild.

  “Brother Bear,” he said, his voice calm and friendly, “I am a red man! It was white hunters who tried to put you under and left that hurt on your skin. The red man lives like his brother the bear, wild and hunted, safe nowhere!”

  The grizzly quieted, as if the Cheyenne words were a strange but soothing music.

  “Brother Bear! Why kill me? Look at my lean body—I am stringy and tough from hunger, like winter-starved game. The tender meat on that fawn will be better in your belly.”

  Suddenly, however, his voice seemed to further enrage the grizzly. This time one set of claws actually took a nick out of his right knee, sending a burning pain up his leg.

  Touch the Sky fell silent, hoping to simply outwait the bear. But though it eventually backed out of the cave, it refused to leave the entrance. Periodically, it would suddenly become enraged and thrust its way back in, hoping to catch the Cheyenne in a careless moment.

  This went on for some time. Outside, the sun rose higher and sent more light into the cave. Touch the Sky’s back and legs were severely cramped from the long crouch against the back wall. He knew he could not maintain this position much longer without pushing his tired, weak muscles to collapse.

  And the only way to fall was forward, into the bear’s claws.

  Better to take a lesson from Black Elk’s warrior training: When attacked and all seems lost, become the aggressor, not the victim.

  He had been eyeing the pile of kindling and wood for some time. Like his weapons, it lay close to hand. The plan he had in mind was dangerous—might in fact very well kill him. But it was the only hope he saw.

  Each time the grizzly backed out of the cave, Touch the Sky would hurriedly draw wood and kindling close. And each time he did so, the bear in turn bellowed in fury and thrust back into the cave. So it took the Cheyenne quite some time to assemble enough material for a fire.

  He struck a spark from his flint and ignited a pile of kindling. Then he piled on wood. During all this the bear continually tried to rip him with its slashing claws. Twice they tossed burning wood from the fire; each time the Cheyenne threw it back in.

  There was enough air for a fire, but no ventilation for the heat and smoke. Tears sprang to Touch the Sky’s eyes as smoke billowed into them. The heat singed his skin and he coughed hard, wracking coughs as acrid fingers of smoke and heat tickled his lungs.

  The bear too coughed. Then, as more and more smoke accumulated, it backed out of the cave.

  Now, thought Touch the Sky.

  Pulling his shredded robe out from under him, he brought it down over the fire for a moment, lifted it until the flames leaped up again, then brought it down again. He was making a smudge fire like the kind used to chase off mosquitoes.

  Huge black clouds of smoke billowed from the cave entrance now. Gagging, his eyes streaming, Touch the Sky heard the enraged beast bellow as it backed further away. If only he could hang on a little longer, he told himself, make a little more smoke ...

  Outside, the wind suddenly shifted. A moment later the thick pall of smoke was sucked back into the cave.

  It caught Touch the Sky flush and pressed the last breath of air out of the cave. He could see nothing through the tears streaming from his eyes. All he knew was that he was suffocating. Now there was no question of hanging on a bit longer, now it no longer mattered where the bear was. Either he got out or he died of suffocation.

  Deciding to take his chance with the bear, he screamed the Cheyenne war cry to nerve himself.

  Then, the Death Song on his lips, he sprang forward through the entrance to the cave.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Look!”

  The Pawnee brave named Gun Powder pointed south across the empty plain. The sun was still new on the eastern horizon to his left, a dull yellow ball without warmth. In the direction he pointed, the Black Hills were just now start
ing to take form against the skyline.

  The newborn sun provided enough light to make the dark, puffy clouds visible as they rose above the hills like escaping bubbles.

  “Smoke! We have no lookouts this far east,” said Red Plume, their battle chief. “They cannot be made by our messengers.”

  “This is not talking smoke,” said Gun Powder with conviction. “No tribe uses such signals. Our fox has carelessly built a fire and revealed his den.”

  “I am for Cheyenne blood!” said Short Buffalo, thrusting his battle lance high.

  Though his words were brave, they were badly muffled because of his wounded mouth. Several braves were forced to turn their heads to hide their wry smiles.

  “Scalp Cane gave me ponies after the Apache stole my clan’s herds,” said Iron Knife. “Now he has crossed over unclean thanks to this Cheyenne buck. Roan Bear has only nineteen winters behind him. But he will never walk straight like a man again, his legs are so twisted. I will drink this Cheyenne’s blood, not merely smear it on my face!”

  “You do well to speak in a kill-cry,” said Red Plume to Iron Knife, contempt clear in his tone. “You, the eagle-eyed brave who missed a pony’s rump with his arrow!”

  Several other warriors laughed. Rage smoked in Iron Knife’s eyes, but he set his face one way and held it, ignoring the others and looking only at Red Plume.

  “In the Medicine Bonnet clan, we are taught that a good Crow pony is worth more than a good Cheyenne buck. This one time I may have missed with my arrow. But my knife, once drawn, always strikes vitals.”

  The challenge was clear in his tone, and Red Plume knew Iron Knife had spoken straight. Red Plume was a good battle leader, quick on his feet and able to think clearly even when the enemy’s unnerving war cry sounded. But Iron Knife was a killer to be reckoned with in a blade fight. Red Plume already regretted his harsh words just now. He also rued his promise to take back one of Iron Knife’s coup feathers as punishment for his bad shot. This was no time to push the hot-tempered brave further.

  “Your clan teaches wisely, then,” said Red Plume. “We are Pawnee brothers of the Kitkehanki, men of men. And we are united against our enemy!”

  He and Iron Knife crossed lances and the rest of the warriors raised their shrill war cry. They had ridden through much of the night, easily tracking their quarry. By now they knew he was headed for the Black Hills and the Cheyenne’s sacred lake—no doubt expecting help from their God.

  Short Buffalo’s swollen and torn face was a constant reminder to the others of this elusive Cheyenne buck’s dangerous skill. One of the new arrivals to the group, a warrior named Sun Road, had joined the Pawnee group known as the Skidi when they attacked Yellow Bear’s camp one winter ago. Sun Road swore this tall buck they sought now was the same who had killed the Skidi battle leader, War Thunder.

  The Pawnee warriors dug their heels and knees hard into their ponies, their minds set only on vengeance.

  ~*~

  At first, when he burst forth from the smoke-filled maw of the cave, Touch the Sky could see nothing. His eyes ached and streamed tears, his throat and lungs cried for air. But each time he gasped, they purchased only raw, burning pain.

  He dropped to the ground, helpless, choking, expecting death at any moment. But steel claws did not rip his muscles from his bones nor spill his guts in one swipe. Nor was he picked up, like a limp rag doll in a terrier s jaws, and dashed to pieces on the rocks.

  Smoke was still rising in wisps behind him when Touch the Sky realized that, for now at least, the bear was gone. His eyes were still streaming and blurred. But he could see now that the grizzly was nowhere close by.

  Still—he was far from safe, he reminded himself. The huge predator was no doubt still in the area around the lake. Bears were highly territorial and did not quit an area easily. Now it had even more reason than ever to hate humans.

  Touch the Sky had no weapons that could bring down a grizzly. His only hope for survival lay in avoiding and outwitting the ill-tempered monster.

  Finally, a cool breath bathed his aching lungs. Another.

  Slowly, Touch the Sky sat up in the grass.

  Across the lake, where his pony was tethered in lush graze, there was a sound like a sturdy tree limb snapping.

  Across the lake …

  … where his pony was tethered!

  Touch the Sky leaped to his feet. He turned around slowly in a circle until he felt the breeze steady in his face. It was blowing from the north: meaning his pony was almost certainly downwind from the bear.

  He hurried back into the cave and grabbed his bow and quiver of new arrows. Then he raced down toward the shore of the lake.

  Trees grew close to the water, obscuring his view of the little sheltered cove where he’d left the gray. Touch the Sky leaped over fallen trees and gnarled roots, swerved to avoid bramble thickets and boulders.

  Another tree limb snapped, leaves were violently shaken.

  A sudden, frightened nicker was followed by an angry bellow.

  Too late!

  Desperation sent more strength surging into Touch the Sky’s legs. His wounded side protested with a jolt of pain each time he leaped a log or root.

  The gray’s panicked whinnying was unrelenting now. More limbs snapped, leaves rattled, the grizzly’s deep bellows seemed to pulsate the air and vibrate the ground.

  Touch the Sky cleared the last trees and reached the cove. On the gently sloping grassy bank, rearing at the end of its tether, the gray held the grizzly at bay with her wildly flailing hooves.

  The horse’s frightened nickering sounded more terrifying than the anguished cries of mortally wounded Cheyenne on a battlefield. Touch the Sky was upwind, and the bear hadn’t noticed him yet. It was too intent on killing the horse.

  There was nothing else Touch the Sky could do. So he slid a fire-hardened arrow from his quiver and notched it to his bowstring. There was no hope, of course, of killing or even seriously hurting the grizzly. But it had to at least be distracted—or Touch the Sky had an impossible walk ahead of him across a no-man’s-land.

  He took cover in a swale behind a spruce thicket. The grizzly was not so blind that it would fail to make out his human shape at this close range.

  The gray nickered, reared, kicked out with her forelegs.

  The grizzly’s right paw swiped. The claws raked furrows in the pony’s muscle-corded chest. The bear reached back for a second, more deadly blow.

  Touch the Sky let fly his arrow. It struck the grizzly’s shaggy, yellow-brown fur just below the left shoulder.

  The beast’s surprised grunt was followed by a roar much louder than its usual woofing bellow. Enraged, but also frightened, the grizzly crashed into the trees and fled.

  His pony was so terrified that Touch the Sky was forced to talk to her for a long time before he could approach her. He finally got her calmed down. Then he led her into the cool lake to bathe her new wounds. They still bled, but were not deep.

  This was a bad omen, thought Touch the Sky. This sojourn to Medicine Lake had proven to be a disaster from its very beginning. He had hoped the arrival of the mysterious eagle signaled a change in his fortunes.

  Now—in addition to angry Pawnee, neglected wounds, and a half-starved body—he had an enraged grizzly to contend with. Arrow Keeper had not made this mission sound so complicated and dangerous when he explained it back at camp.

  Again, as Touch the Sky led his horse back out of the clean lake, he felt a cool tickle of premonition move up the bumps of his spine like a feather.

  ~*~

  “I told you hunger would make him no less dangerous,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said bitterly.

  “Did you see how cleverly he eluded Brother Bear?” said Swift Canoe. His tone was begrudgingly respectful. “Not once did he show the white feather.”

  “He is a warrior,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “But he is no Cheyenne! He has brought contamination to our tribe. We are bound by Black Elk’s orders.”

&nb
sp; Both youths were crouched behind a hawthorn bush just down ridge from their hidden camp. The lake lay even further down below them.

  “I tried to kill him once,” said Swift Canoe, fitting an arrow to his string. “But he ducked just as I shot. This time I will sink my shaft into the quick of him!”

  Wolf Who Hunts Smiling made no move to stop his friend. Despite his talk of Touch the Sky’s being a spy, the main reason Wolf Who Hunts Smiling hated him was envy. Clearly Arrow Keeper was preparing the tall stranger for a leadership position within the tribe. But Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had his own ambitions for the tribe, and had already begun winning younger warriors over to his way of thinking. He hoped to soon form his own military society within the tribe and challenge the Headmen, who were not keen enough to take the fight to the encroaching white men.

  Even so, just as Swift Canoe had eased his bowstring back, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling took his arm in a grip as strong as an eagle’s talons.

  “Hold, brother! Look, down on the plains!”

  Swift Canoe glanced down the forested hillside, looking where his friend pointed. His jaw fell slack with surprise.

  Both Cheyenne immediately recognized the distinctive topknots of the approaching riders: Pawnee! They counted nine riders, coming from exactly the same direction that Touch the Sky had chosen.

  “They are tracking Woman Face,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said with conviction.

  “You must be right, brother! See how they fan out now? See how they dismount? They are hobbling their horses.”

  “They hope to surprise him.”

  “True,” said Swift Canoe. “But lice-eaters will not content themselves with one kill if more Cheyenne are available.”

  The nervousness in Swift Canoe’s tone was clear, as was his meaning. Wolf Who Hunts Smiling thought for a moment, then nodded at his companion’s words.

  “There are too many of them for us to fight,” said Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.