A Whisper In The Wind (18 page)

The tracks of the fleeing Pawnee were clear and easy to follow, and the Cheyenne war party rode hard and fast, and yet it seemed to Michael that his horse was hardly moving. He lashed the buckskin again and again, demanding more speed. Mo’ohta-vo’nehe assured him they were making good time, yet he felt as though he were caught in a web, that no matter how hard he tried to go forward, he would never make it.

Knowing they would be pursued, the Pawnee were heading straight for home and Michael knew they had to overtake them soon, before it was too late, before… He pushed the thought of what the Pawnee would do to Elayna from his mind, knowing he would go mad if he let himself think of other men touching her, possessing her. He had to remain calm, to save his energy for the fight to come. He would kill every last one of the bastards himself and glory in taking their scalps if they so much as harmed a hair of her head.

They rode for hours, but for once, time had lost all meaning. He was immune to the heat and the dust, hardly aware of his companions or his surroundings.

Just let her be alive. Please, God, just let her be alive.
Over and over again, he mouthed the words, beseeching all the gods, red and white, to protect the woman he loved while images of Winter Song filled his mind.

Guilt rode beside him as he urged his horse onward. Elayna would not be here now but for him. How could he ever face her again if she came to harm? How would he live with himself if she were hurt or killed?
Please, God, just let her be alive.

Some two hours after noon, Soaring Eagle reined his horse to a halt near a shallow stream. The Pawnee had been there not more than an hour ago, he said, his dark eyes scanning the ground. They had stopped only long enough to ease their thirst.

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe glanced at Michael, then pointed at the ground. “There,” he said. “They have your woman.”

Michael stared at the rocky ground, reading the sign. He recognized Elayna’s footprints. In his mind’s eye, he saw clearly where the Pawnee had pushed her to the ground, how she had crawled toward the water. Her hands were tied behind her back, and he felt the rage boil up inside him as he pictured Elayna dragging herself through the dirt, the sharp stones digging into her flesh, the weeds snagging her dress and scratching her face.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly. “We’re wasting time.”

It was just after dark when they caught up with the Pawnee. The scene that met Michael’s gaze was forever burned in his mind, and he knew a moment of blessed relief as he realized they had arrived in time.

There were five warriors. Four of them were holding Elayna down while the fifth stripped off his clout. He was a tall man, his body damp with desire, his eyes glazed with lust as he stared at the white woman writhing on the ground.

With a feral grin, Michael nocked an arrow to his bow and let it fly. The first arrow caught the aroused brave full in the groin; the second pierced his heart.

Before Michael could put a third arrow to his bowstring, the other four warriors lay dead upon the ground.

With a cry, Michael ran forward and lifted the Pawnee’s roached scalplock. The sound of Elayna’s horrified scream punctuated the night, piercing the red mists of his rage. With a soft curse, he tossed the bloody scalp aside, the need for vengeance forgotten as he ran to her side and drew her into his arms. Wiping the blood from his knife, he cut her hands free, then held her close, rocking her back and forth as though she were a child. He felt her arms go around his neck, felt her body shudder with great racking sobs as fear gave way to relief.

He held her for a long time, afraid to let her go. His hands stroked her hair as he murmured soft words in her ear. Time lost its meaning and he was aware of nothing but the woman in his arms as his heart sent a fervent prayer of thanksgiving toward heaven.

Later, when her tears had dried and her body had stopped trembling, he became aware of his surroundings. Mo’ohta-vo’nehe and the others had carried away the bodies of the dead Pawnee, then withdrawn into the darkness, leaving Michael and Elayna alone. A waterskin was on the ground beside them, together with a bundle of pemmican, some jerky, and a blanket.

He smiled to himself, thankful for the thoughtfulness of his friends, as he draped the blanket around Elayna’s nakedness.

“Are you hurt?”

Elayna shook her head. “I was scared. Oh, Michael, I’ve never been so scared.”

“I know.”

She drew back a little, her eyes moving over him. There was blood on his hands and arms, splashed across his chest.

“You’ve killed a man.” Her words were flat and empty, yet he sensed the pain lurking beneath.

“And taken a scalp.” He gestured at the bloody thing lying a few feet away.

Elayna pressed a hand over her mouth, afraid she might be ill. She could not block the image of Michael bending over the dead Pawnee, his knife lifting the Indian’s scalplock.

There was a long silence between them as they pondered what he had done. Elayna’s first reaction was revulsion, but that was quickly swallowed up in a sense of pride in Michael, in his ability to protect her. He had fought for her, rescued her from a fate more terrible than anything she had ever imagined.

She drank from the waterskin he offered her, but had no appetite for the food Mo’ohta-vo’nehe had left for them. Now that her thirst was satisfied, she wanted only to be held and comforted.

Michael gazed into the darkness, his fingers toying with a lock of Elayna’s hair. He had killed two men and taken a scalp. Michael Wolf, the car salesman, was shocked by such barbaric behavior. Michael Wolf, great-grandson of Yellow Spotted Wolf, knew only a keen sense of pride, of exhilaration. He had acted with courage in the face of danger and death. No quality was held in higher esteem by the Cheyenne than courage under fire.

“If you don’t feel like traveling, we can spend the night here,” Michael remarked after a while.

“I’d rather go home,” Elayna said. And when she said home, she meant the Cheyenne village and not Camp Robinson.

Michael knew it too, and his smile was warm as he helped her dress, then lifted her onto the back of his horse and vaulted up behind her. His arm was tight around her waist as they rode away from the Pawnee camp.

Behind them, like shadows on the wind, rode Mo’ohta-vo’nehe and the Fox Soldiers.

There was a scalp dance the following night. Just the name filled Elayna with revulsion, yet morbid curiosity prompted her to say yes when Michael asked her if she wanted to go.

The dance took place in the center of the village and was directed by a small group of men called the
Hee’man’eh,
which meant half man, half woman. They were a strange lot, and they made Elayna uncomfortable, but they were favorites with the young people. Prior to the dance, the
Hee’man’eh
went from lodge to lodge, entreating each family to send some firewood to the center of the camp.

As the singers and drummers began their songs, the
Hee’man’eh
lit the fire, which was built in the shape of a lodge. As the singing began, the people gathered, everybody painted red and black. All the older people wore black paint. The men were shirtless. The drummers stood in a row facing north, the young women faced the young men, the old men and women took their places facing west. Only the
Hee’man’eh
were permitted in the center of the circle.

Elayna had decided not to participate, but Michael insisted. Watching the girl beside her, Elayna danced in line toward the center while the young men walked around behind the drummers and then placed themselves behind their sweethearts. Elayna smiled at Michael as he took her arm, and they danced the sweethearts’ dance.

It reminded Elayna of Halloween. The people all looked like demons as they danced around the fire. She had agreed to wear a streak of red paint on her cheek; Michael had painted the lower half of his face black and he looked alien and fierce. A jagged red slash ran from his right shoulder to his left hip, reminding her of the blood that had stained his chest when he killed the Pawnee.

After dancing for a time, they returned to their places and stood facing each other again. And now the
Hee’man’eh
danced before the drummers, holding long poles to which the scalps were fastened. At the other end of the circle, the old women were dancing.

Michael grinned as one of the
Hee’man’eh
waved the scalp pole at a couple of young boys who were trying to sneak into the dance circle. The boys took one look at the waving scalps and ran back to their lodges.

Later there was a match-making dance, and then something called the slippery dance, followed by the last dance, which was called the galloping buffalo-bull dance.

Elayna was thoughtful as they walked back to their lodge. She had expected some kind of wild gyrations with a lot of yelling and screaming, but once again the Cheyenne had surprised her.

Finally, lying together under the buffalo robes, Elayna asked the question that had been haunting her all day.

“What was it like?” she asked. “What was it like to take that man’s scalp? How could you do it?”

“He was the enemy,” Michael replied, and he felt again the terrible rage that had consumed him when he saw the Pawnee staring down at Elayna. It had been a good feeling, taking the Pawnee’s life, robbing him of his scalp so that he would wander the next world in shame and sorrow.

“But to take a scalp,” Elayna said, shuddering. “It’s so…so barbaric.”

“Maybe,” Michael agreed. But it had not seemed barbaric. He had lifted the Pawnee’s scalp as if he had done it a hundred times before. He had felt the blood on his hands, and it had satisfied a deep need. Elayna had been avenged. And so had Winter Song.

He turned on his side and took Elayna in his arms, one hand drawing her against him so that her breasts were crushed against his chest, her hips molded to his, her belly cradling his manhood.

Elayna breathed a sigh of sweet contentment as Michael bent to kiss her. She was in his arms again, safe and warm, and she knew there was no place on earth she’d rather be.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Michael went to see his great-grandfather early
the following morning. Yellow Spotted Wolf smiled weakly as Michael sat down beside him.

“My father tells me you saved my life,” Yellow Spotted Wolf remarked.

“Yes.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded, his eyes searching Michael’s face. “I would ask you a question,” he said slowly. “When I was wounded by the Pawnee, you knelt at my side. You called me Grandfather and told me I had nothing to fear.”

Michael nodded, his heart hammering as he waited for the inevitable questions, the disbelief.

“Why did you call me Grandfather when I am younger than you? Who are you, Wolf? Why do we look so much alike? Why do I feel that I have always known you?”

“I do not think you will believe the answer,” Michael said. “Sometimes I do not believe it myself.”

“Tell me.”

“I have come here from a great distance across time and space.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded. He tried to concentrate on Wolf’s face, to listen to his words, but the world seemed out of focus and he knew that the medicine old Red-Furred Bear had given him was starting to take effect.

“Why have you come?” he asked.

“It was my great-grandfather’s last wish that I seek a vision to guide me through life.”

“He was a wise man.”

“Yes.”

“And did you receive a vision?”

“Yes. And you are a part of it.”

“Have you come here from the future, then?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Wolf, what does the future hold? Will we win the battle against the white-eyes?”

“No. But next year we will win a great victory at the Little Bighorn. Sitting Bull will offer one hundred pieces of his flesh during the Sun Dance when the Lakota and the Cheyenne gather together, and in return he will receive a vision wherein he will see hundreds of white men falling at his feet. The battle he sees will be against Custer at the Greasy Grass.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf smiled indulgently.

“You do not believe me?”

“No, but it is a good story.”

“If you believe nothing else I have told you,” Michael said fervently, “you must give heed to what I say now. You must not let Badger near the battle.”

“Badger? He is only a boy.”

“I know, but he will follow you to battle if you do not listen to what I say, and he will be killed. Promise me you will keep an eye on him that day.”

“I promise,” Yellow Spotted Wolf answered. “Tell me, Wolf, will I die in this battle at the Greasy Grass?”

“No. You will live a long and healthy life.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded, then his eyelids fluttered down.

Michael gazed at his great-grandfather for a long time, praying that Yellow Spotted Wolf would remember his warning.

“Rest well, Grandfather,” Michael murmured, and left the lodge.

“Grandfather?” Yellow Spotted Wolf repeated softly, and the word followed him to sleep.

It was September, what the Cheyenne called
Wah-kamuneishim,
the month of the Plum Moon.

Near the end of the month, a runner from Sitting Bull’s camp arrived at the village. He had news, troublesome news, and that evening there was a council meeting. Mo’ohta-vo’nehe told Michael about the meeting when it was over.

That night, lying under the buffalo robes, unable to sleep, Michael thought about what Mo’ohta-vo’nehe had said, and to that he added what he remembered from the history books. The problem, as he understood it, had to do with the Treaty of 1868, which stated that the government would provide clothing and other necessities of life to the Sioux for thirty months from the date of the treaty, and would continue to provide meat and flour for a period of four years while the Indians learned to adjust to the ways of the white man.

The latter provision had expired in 1871, and since the government did not feel it could continue to support the Sioux, who had shown little or no interest in farming, it had been decided that the government would supply the Indians with food for an extended period of time, and the Indians could pay for these supplies by ceding the Black Hills. Some people felt the arrangement was more than fair, the Indians would receive the food they needed, and the Americans would finally get the land they had coveted for so long. The few who disagreed with this line of reasoning were in the minority.

A council had been scheduled for September 1 at the Red Cloud Agency, and the Indians at the other agencies had been notified and invited to attend. The council did not go well, according to the runner sent by Sitting Bull. Many of the Indians refused to participate; those who did attend were divided in their opinions. Some were willing to sell the Black Hills for a great deal of money; others refused to sell at any price. In the end, the government offered the Indians four hundred thousand dollars a year for the mining rights, or six million dollars for outright purchase of the Hills, but that had been less than the Indians wanted, and the council had come to an end.

Sitting Bull had refused to attend the meeting; so had Crazy Horse, but the war chief of the Oglala had sent a message, which said in part: “Are you the Great God that made me, or was it the Great God that made me who sent you? If He asks me to come to see Him, I will go, but the Big Chief of the whites must come to see me. I will not go to the reservation. I have no land to sell…”

Michael gazed at the dark triangle of sky visible through the smokehole of the lodge. Miners were continuing to pour into the Black Hills, and the Indians continued to harass the wagon trains and settlers they found on the roads. And everybody knew it was going to be war…

War, he thought bleakly. It would come next year, and the Indians would win their greatest victory, but in the end they would lose, and in less than three years there would be no more Indians hunting in the Paha Sapa, no more warriors riding wild and free across the broad grassy plains, no more Cheyenne lodges pitched along the peaceful shores of the South Platte.

He turned his gaze to Elayna sleeping quietly beside him, and he wished he did not know what the future held so that he might enjoy the next few months in blissful ignorance unaware that the good days, the good times, were fast coming to an end.

He wondered if she would be strong enough to stay with him when the bad times came, when the Cheyenne were forced onto the living hell of the reservation, when food was scarce and the snow was deep and the cries of the sick and the dying drifted on the wind. The soldiers would look at her with contempt because she lived with an Indian. They would leer at her and call her ugly names.

He stirred restlessly beneath the covers, troubled by his thoughts, and then he felt Elayna’s hand on his arm, heard her voice heavy with sleep as she murmured his name, and he knew he could endure any hardship so long as she was there beside him.

He gathered her close, his face pressed to her shoulder, feeling the worry and the tension drain out of him as she stroked his back, her lips moving in his hair as she whispered that she loved him.

Her nearness and the sound of her voice drove the demons away, and he fell asleep in her arms, her name like a prayer on his lips.

The following morning the aged warrior who announced the camp news brought word that the village would be moving the next day. They would trail the buffalo for one last hunt, and then they would seek a place to spend the winter.

The people spent that day getting ready for the move, and by midmorning the next day the village on the Platte was gone, with only the blackened ashes of old campfires and the debris of daily living left behind.

It was a happy time. The warriors, mounted on their best ponies, rode ahead, their watchful eyes scanning the plains. The women and the travois ponies came next, followed by the vast Cheyenne horse herd. Yellow Spotted Wolf lay on a travois. He had argued that he was well enough to ride, but the medicine man would not hear of it, and neither would Hemene, and so Yellow Spotted Wolf rode on the travois, complaining loudly to anyone who would listen that old Red-Furred Bear was trying to make a woman of him.

Toward noon, Michael fell back to ride beside his great-grandfather. His heart swelled with gratitude as he listened to Yellow Spotted Wolf’s complaints. The warrior would recover, of that there was no doubt.

They made camp along the Sweetwater River in Wyoming Territory. Yellow Spotted Wolf had recovered most of his strength by the time the camp was settled, and he sought Michael’s company often, wanting to hear more stories of the future, even though he refused to believe them, refused to believe the Cheyenne would be defeated by the
vehoe.

They had been camped at the Sweetwater about a week when the council decided the time was favorable to hunt the buffalo.

That night several of the warriors who were going on the hunt performed the buffalo dance to ask the Great Spirit to bless the hunt and bring the buffalo close to camp.

Elayna watched, fascinated, as the warriors danced, their movements imitating the behavior of buffalo grazing and pawing the ground.

The dancers wore leggings and breechclouts adorned with beaded symbols. Their moccasins and armbands were also beaded in colorful designs. Below their knees they wore leg bands to which bells had been fastened. On their wrists were cuffs made of buffalo hair. Each dancer carried a brightly painted bow and rattle. But most impressive was the buffalo horn headpiece that covered each dancer’s head, shoulders, and back. A buffalo tail was fastened to the back of each man’s belt.

The following morning a handful of warriors rode out in search of the buffalo. They returned late that afternoon with good news. A small herd had been found nearby. The location of the herd was given and the men were admonished to avoid that area lest the animals be disturbed or frightened away. Any warrior foolish enough to set out on his own in violation of the council’s edict would be severely punished. Warriors who violated tribal laws were beaten; sometimes their lodges were destroyed, or their horses killed.

But no one violated the law, and Michael and Yellow Spotted Wolf rode out of the village side by side early the next morning.

Michael could hardly contain his excitement as he contemplated killing his first buffalo. He had killed other game—deer and elk, rabbits by the dozen—but a buffalo! That would be a prize indeed.

His horse pranced beneath him and Michael felt like laughing out loud. It was good to be alive on such a glorious morning, good to be in the company of men he respected.

“Even the horses are eager for the hunt,” Yellow Spotted Wolf remarked as his own mount tossed its head and pulled against the reins.

Michael grinned. They would dine on fresh buffalo meat before the day was out.

He drew a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as his lungs filled with the cool, fresh air. It was fall, and the air was clean and crisp. The leaves were changing on the trees, putting away their emerald gowns for dazzling coats of red and gold and orange.

The warriors rode in silence, every eye looking ahead, eager for the sight of the great curly-haired beasts that provided the Cheyenne with virtually everything they needed for survival.

It was just before noon when Red Tail Fox held up his hand, signaling that he had spotted the herd. The Indians split into two columns and rode around the herd, surrounding the buffalo.

Michael’s heart was beating wildly as he nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His horse pranced beneath him, as eager for the hunt to begin as was the man on his back.

Red Tail Fox loosed the first arrow, killing a fat cow near the edge of the herd. A horse whinnied, a second arrow whistled through the air, and suddenly the herd was racing away. Tails high, heads down, the buffalo ran, the sound of their hooves like rolling thunder.

Yellow Spotted Wolf uttered a shrill cry as he put his horse after the herd, and Michael did likewise. Dust boiled up, filling his nostrils, clouding his vision.

His horse had chased the buffalo before, and it carried Michael alongside the stampeding herd. Guiding his horse with the pressure of his knees, Michael rode up on the right side of the cow he had chosen, sighted down the shaft, and loosed an arrow. The cow snorted as the arrow pierced its heart, then fell heavily to the ground.

A triumphant cry rose in Michael’s throat as he urged his horse onward. Ahead he saw Yellow Spotted Wolf chasing an enormous bull, and he forgot about killing another buffalo himself as he watched his great-grandfather. Man and horse moved as one, riding just behind the bull’s shoulder. Yellow Spotted Wolf carried a lance, and as Michael watched, he drove it into the animal’s heart. The sound of his great-grandfather’s kill cry was a sound Michael would never forget.

Lifting his own voice in a cry of exultation, Michael turned back to the hunt. He had nocked an arrow to his bow and was sighting down the shaft when a big bull came up on his left and raked its horn across his horse’s belly. The horse screamed and went down, pinning Michael beneath its bulk.

Time. It seemed to slow to a crawl. He saw the scarlet tide pouring from his horse’s belly, smelled the dust and the blood and his own fear as he waited to be crushed beneath the last of the stampeding herd.