A Whisper In The Wind (4 page)

Sitting Bull nodded. The name of Mo’ohta-vo’nehe was well known among the Lakota. “Your people have gone to Tallow River for the summer.”

Michael nodded. Tallow River was the Indian name for the South Platte.

“Is my family well?” he asked, hoping to hear some word of Yellow Spotted Wolf.

“Hin,
yes.” Sitting Bull placed a heavy hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Tell me,
tahunsa,
what do you see in the future for our people? What do you see for me? Will I win the war against the white man?”

Michael did not answer right away. He was conscious of the sun on his back, of feeling vulnerable as he stood there before one of the greatest leaders the Lakota Nation had ever produced. But, most of all, he was aware of Sitting Bull’s hand resting on his shoulder, of the inescapable feeling that the Hunkpapa medicine man knew exactly who Michael Wolf was and where he had come from. He told himself that was impossible, but the feeling remained.

He drew a deep breath, wondering what his fate would be when he told Sitting Bull the truth. For one brief moment he considered concocting a lie, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Only a fool, or a man without honor, would try to lie to Tatanka lyotake, and Michael was neither.

But before he could speak, the medicine man lifted a hand to silence him.

“What you have to say matters not,” Sitting Bull decided with a wistful smile. “What was meant to be will surely come to pass, and neither of us can change that.”

“But knowledge might make a difference,” Michael exclaimed. “There are things I should tell you.”

“Wakán Tanka
will tell me what I need to know,” Sitting Bull replied, “as he will tell you that which you need to know. You have come here to find yourself, Michael Wolf, but you cannot do that here, among the Lakota. You must go to Tallow River, to your own people. That is where your destiny lies.
Wakán Tanka
will speak to you there.”

“You know who I am?”

Sitting Bull nodded. “I know, and it frightens me a little. I think it will be better for you, and for us, if you leave the land of the Lakota and seek the lodges of the
Shyela,
the Cheyenne, as soon as you can travel.”

Sitting Bull gazed at Michael for a long moment, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked back toward the village.

Michael grinned ruefully. He had, he mused, just been asked to leave.

Michael gazed into the distance, his expression thoughtful, his mind filling with Sitting Bull’s words.

What will be, will be,
the medicine man had declared, and Michael could not help but wonder what the future held in store for him. Was he destined to remain here, to become a part of his people’s past, or was it just a dream after all?

Chapter Six

He left the Lakota encampment the following morning. His horse, a big calico gelding, had been a parting gift from Sitting Bull.

Leaving the camp behind, Michael shook his head over his conversation with Sitting Bull. Now, away from the camp and the Hunkpapa medicine man, it was hard to believe any of it had been real. It was easier to think it had been some kind of joke, that Sitting Bull had not been Sitting Bull at all, just a remarkable look-alike.

He let out a sigh as he urged his horse toward Johnson Siding. He was going to look pretty silly riding into town wearing nothing but a clout and moccasins, but it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t looking forward to telling the man he’d rented the horses from that his animals had been stolen, either, but what the hell. Perhaps the man would take the calico and a hundred dollars and call it even.

Michael shook his head again. Damn, this trip had been nothing but trouble from the beginning…well, not entirely, he amended. It had afforded him a chance to spend a little time with Yellow Spotted Wolf before he died. And, despite everything that had happened, he was glad to be here in the Black Hills. The place was beautiful, peaceful, and he knew he never would have taken the time to come here if it hadn’t been his great-grandfather’s last request.

Putting his worries behind him, Michael let himself enjoy the scenery, the rolling hills, the tall yellow grass, the clear blue sky. He tried to enjoy the ride too, but after a couple hours of plodding along, he decided he much preferred driving a sleek black convertible to riding a horse.

He lifted the calico into a lope, thinking what a good laugh everybody at the agency would have when he told his story back in L.A.

The car was gone when he reached Johnson Siding the following day, and so was the town.

Michael stared at the place where the motel had been. Nothing remained but a patch of sun-bleached ground. The whole town had disappeared as if it had never existed.

He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing while the gradual reality of what had happened hit home. And still he was unwilling to believe it. Urging the calico into a lope, he rode east until he came to the Black Hills Caverns. The cave was there, just as it had been for hundreds of years, but Crystal Cave Park was gone. The reptile gardens had vanished.

Changing direction, he rode north. Wildlife was plentiful as he rode along, and he saw squirrels, birds, rabbits, a black bear off in the distance, an eagle circling high overhead.

The highway was gone, the Black Hills Greyhound Track outside Rapid City was gone. And so was Rapid City.

For a moment he sat unmoving, too stunned to think clearly, and then he reined his horse northwest, toward Deadwood. He grinned ruefully. He knew Deadwood hadn’t disappeared.

The discovery of gold in the Black Hills in the summer of 1875 had put Deadwood on the map. The town, built almost entirely of wood, had burned to the ground in 1879 and had been promptly rebuilt. Indians had fought the settlers; floods on Whitewood Creek in Deadwood Gulch had done their share of damage; a blizzard in 1949 had dumped over seventy inches of snow on the town. But it continued to thrive. It was, as historian Watson Parker had once said, a town that would not die.

It was well after midnight the following night when he reached Deadwood.
Civilization,
he thought.
Thank God.

Loud music and laughter spilled out of a saloon; he saw a pair of men staggering down the center of the dusty street, obviously drunk. There were several horses standing hipshot at the rail in front of Dirty Nellie’s Saloon.

A good stiff drink was just what he needed, he mused as he dismounted at the nearest saloon and tossed the calico’s reins over the hitchrack. A good stiff drink and something to eat.

Feeling suddenly uneasy, he paused at the swinging doors and peered inside. The tavern was made of wood, with raw plank floors and an open beam ceiling. A long bar took up most of the far wall; several gaming tables competed for space in the narrow room. A half-dozen men, all clad in the rough garb of old-time miners, occupied the saloon. Four of them were engaged in a high-stakes poker game; the other two stood at the bar discussing a shoot-out that had taken place in Saloon #10 the night before.

Saloon #10, Michael thought absently. That was where Wild Bill Hickok had been killed, shot in the back by Jack McCall.

Taking a deep breath, Michael stepped through the swinging doors.

He knew immediately that he’d made a mistake. The bartender hollered, “Indians!” and ducked behind the bar, only to reappear with a rifle in his hands. The miners at the poker table dove for cover, their hands reaching for their guns.

Muttering an oath, Michael turned and raced out of the saloon. Shouts of “Injuns! Injuns!” followed him into the night.

Vaulting onto the calico’s back, he galloped out of town, the miners in hot pursuit, their shouts filling the quiet night.

A cluster of tents rose up out of the darkness, and Michael realized he had ridden into Deadwood Gulch. Miners poured out of the tents at the sound of gunshots, and Michael jerked the gelding’s head to the right, hoping to escape into the darkness, when he heard the sharp crack of a rifle, felt a sudden stab of pain in his right shoulder. A second gunshot struck his horse and the animal fell heavily, then lay still.

In seconds, Michael was surrounded by more than a dozen angry miners brandishing rifles and clubs.

“Dirty redskin,” one of the men exclaimed, his voice thick with contempt. “What the hell is he doing prowling around here in the middle of the night?”

“I was…”

A hard fist caught Michael flush in the mouth. He felt his lower lip split, felt his mouth fill with blood.

“Shut up!” bellowed the man who had hit him. “Shorty, get a rope. We’ll hogtie him for now. Come morning, we’ll have ourselves a little necktie party.”

“No!” Michael shouted. “Listen to me…”

He doubled over as one of the miners drove a hard fist into his belly.

“Save your breath, Injun,” the man said, sneering. “We ain’t interested in nothing you got to say.”

A cold knot of fear congealed in the pit of Michael’s stomach as his hands were lashed behind his back. Someone shoved him to the ground, then bound his feet together and secured them to a tree. He heard the miners talking as they returned to their tents, their voices thick with excitement at the prospect of a hanging come morning.

He choked back the vomit that rose in his throat as he imagined what it would be like to feel the noose around his neck, to feel that first moment of being suspended in the air before the rope brought him up short, either breaking his neck quickly and cleanly or slowly strangling him to death.

The words of the miners lingered in his ears: “dirty redskin…damned savage…stinkin’ gut-eater…”

He had never encountered such prejudice in his life. Even in L.A., people had accepted him as an equal once they got to know him. True, there had been some jibes about scalps and war dances, but he had never been subjected to the scorn or out-and-out hatred he had seen reflected in the faces of the miners.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm. The throbbing in his shoulder made it difficult to think, hunger clawed at his belly. The blood running down his arm was warm and wet, and he began to shiver convulsively as pain and fear took hold of him.

Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath. He had to stay calm, he had to think. These men were hard as hickory, uneducated, ruthless. They would not listen to any explanations, would not believe his story even if they did listen. Damn! He had to get the hell out of Deadwood before morning. The thought of what his fate would be if he failed overcame the pain in his shoulder, and he began to struggle against the ropes that bound his hands.

Fear of being hanged by a bunch of Indian-hating, blood-hungry whites made him continue to struggle even after his wrists began to bleed. And it was the blood that did the trick, making the rope wet enough and slippery enough to allow him to slip his hands free.

Feeling somewhat lightheaded from the blood he had lost from the gunshot wound, he nevertheless managed to untie the rope on his feet. It was an effort to stand up, and once the world stopped reeling, he went in search of a horse.

He found a tall, raw-boned bay tethered to a tree and, after loosing the reins, walked the animal out of the camp. Only when he was well out of earshot did he climb wearily onto the mare’s back, and then he slammed his heels into her flanks and headed for the Platte, and Yellow Spotted Wolf.

Yellow Spotted Wolf. He repeated the name in his mind. If he could only reach his great-grandfather, he would be safe. The Cheyenne would give him food and water and shelter.

He rode throughout the night, and the darkness became a part of him, surrounding him, ensnaring him in ebony strands so that the pain in his shoulder seemed to belong to someone else, as did the hunger and thirst that plagued him.

He wrapped his right hand in the mare’s flowing black mane and closed his eyes.

Yellow Spotted Wolf. If he could only find Yellow Spotted Wolf before the darkness swallowed him completely…

Chapter Seven

He woke with a start, and a quiet voice spoke to him, urging him to lie still, assuring him that he was among friends, that everything would be all right. He blinked several times to clear his vision, and he saw two people bending over him. The woman was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with luminous black eyes, straight black brows, dusky skin, and waist-length hair. The man was old. There was iron in his hair and a lifetime of living etched into his weathered features.

“Where am I?” Michael asked.

“Later,” the woman said with a smile. “Red-Furred Bear is going to remove the bullet from your shoulder.”

Michael shook his head in protest as the aged medicine man withdrew a long-bladed knife from his belt. Yellow Spotted Wolf had placed great faith in the magical healing powers of the Cheyenne shamans and mystics, but Michael had always been skeptical of such ancient rituals. He’d never needed a doctor before, he mused ruefully, and now, when he was about to go under the knife, literally, for the first time, it would be at the hands of an old medicine man. The woman seemed to understand Michael’s anxiety. Taking his hand in hers, she murmured,
“Hoshuh,
be calm. I have seen Red-Furred Bear heal many wounds, some much worse than yours.”

Michael nodded as the old shaman rose to his feet.

Plucking a live coal from the small fire in the center of the lodge, Red-Furred Bear sprinkled it with powdered bitterroot. As the scented smoke filled the air, he held his hands over the smoke, palms down, and then he pressed his palms over the wound in Michael’s shoulder.

Michael groaned softly as the old man touched him, purifying the wound.

Lifting his hands, Red-Furred Bear began to sing. Taking up a buffalo-hide rattle filled with small stones, he shook it over the length of Michael’s body to drive away any evil spirits that might be within the lodge. After several minutes he stopped singing to pray, and then he began to chant again, shaking the rattle all the while, until he felt the lodge had been purified.

And then he passed his knife through the smoke.

Michael tensed, his gaze riveted on the blade as he imagined the knife slicing through his flesh.

“Hoshuh,”
the girl murmured again. “Be calm.”

Michael concentrated on her voice, her face. Her eyes, beautiful and dark, were filled with compassion as she gently squeezed his hand. Her hair was as black as a midnight sky, her lips the color of a dark and dusky rose. Her brows were straight and delicate above almond-shaped eyes, her lashes long and thick.

The touch of her hand was like magic, easing the pain in his shoulder as the medicine man cut the bullet from his flesh and packed the bleeding wound with healing herbs before wrapping it with a strip of clean cloth.

He felt bereft when the girl left his side to walk the medicine man to the door of the lodge and bid him good day.

When she returned, she offered Michael a cup of strong tea. He drank greedily, ignoring the slightly bitter taste, and when he drained the cup, she put it aside, then removed his moccasins and covered him with a lightweight robe.

“Don’t go,” he murmured as she started to rise.

The woman nodded. Kneeling beside him, she brushed a wisp of hair from his forehead.

“Naaotsestse,”
she said quietly. “Go to sleep.”