Magnificent Passage (41 page)

Brave Bear and Man Afraid, two lesser chiefs, waited within. More formalities were exchanged and the men seated themselves cross-legged around a small fire that warmed the teepee. The camp was high up in the mountains, so the warm spring sun had yet to complete the winter thaw. A teepee liner of soft leather, a means of insulation against the cold, was painted in bright designs that told stories of coup counted, horses stolen, and deeds of valor.

Crazy Horse filled a fine long-stemmed stone pipe and lit it. A long draw filled the room with the smell of red willow bark mixed with a little tobacco. As custom dictated, he passed the pipe to Hawk. In years Crazy Horse was younger than Hawk, but his taut lean features and the fine lines of responsibility around his hard eyes made him look older.

“It is good to be here, my brothers,” Hawk began, after the ritual of the pipe was complete. He held the intense gaze of the razor-faced man across from him. “I have come at the request of the white chief, President Grant. He asks that I try to help you adjust to the new peace.”

“Peace! What peace?” Man Afraid jumped to his feet and spat into the fire. “The whites have already begun breaking their word and killing our people!” He curled his thick lips and turned away.

Hawk took a deep breath. “The whites are often unfair in their demands, their laws often unjust when it comes to those whose skin is a different color. I did not come here to try to justify the broken promises of the white man.” He turned his attention toward Crazy Horse. “I came to show you the folly of trying to win a war against them.

“All of our nations, all of our people together, could not fill one of their great cities. They are like the water that flows from the high mountains in springtime—a vast, never-ending stream. They can defeat us by the sheer force of their numbers.”

“Every Indian brother is worth ten of the whites.” Crazy Horse spoke the words many believed. His thin face reddened, and his voice rose.

“Hoye!”
the others cried in the sign of agreement.

“Our brothers are strong. There is no question of that,” Hawk said. “But there are a hundred times more whites than Indians.”

“Then by our deaths we will win a victory in honor!” Crazy Horse said. “Without honor there is no life!” The firelight flickered across the hard, sharp features, making the lean red-man appear even more foreboding than his words.

Hawk glanced from Crazy Horse to Lean Man and Running Wolf. It was easy to see why the Oglala warriors of the Sioux would follow their leader wherever he led. Even Hawk's own tribesmen were entranced with the power of
the man's words. It was a difficult argument for any man of honor to counter.

“What you say is true,” Hawk said. “But there are other lives we must consider—our women, our children, our children's children.”

“Their lives would have no value without honor.” Brave Bear spoke and Man Afraid nodded in agreement.

Crazy Horse moved toward the teepee opening. He called to one of the women to bring food and drink. The council was only beginning.

The debate continued for hours; the hours turned to days, and the days became a week. Each man's views were presented, argued against, and new ideas exchanged. By the end of the week, it was becoming apparent Hawk's mission would fail. The pride of the red man was too strong, his sense of honor too precious to concede. Hawk himself was not completely sure Crazy Horse was wrong, not completely convinced there weren't more truths than falsehoods to the chief's words. But the loss of human life was never something to be taken lightly.

It was with a heavy heart that Hawk swung onto the back of the big roan. Lean Man and Running Wolf were already mounted and ready. Hawk wished there was more hope for the Indian way of life. Then he thought of the white families as well as red who would bleed in the coming war and that, too, tore at his heart.

Only time would bring the answer. Time and people like himself who truly understood the red man's world. When
he returned to California he would renew his efforts to make the whites—and the government—understand.

“I wish you a safe journey, my brothers,” Crazy Horse said as the men departed. “Though our hearts may differ, I am certain I will be able to count on you if all else fails.”

Hawk knew Crazy Horse was right. His Cheyenne tribesmen would stand with the Sioux if the whites continued their string of broken promises. He waved good-bye, nudged the big roan forward, and headed back toward his village. Lean Man and Running Wolf followed close behind.

Max Gutterman rubbed his hands together and allowed a crude smile to lift the narrow dry line of his lips. From where he sat behind a granite boulder, high atop the mountain, it was easy to keep an eye on the trail below. He'd been waiting impatiently for his quarry to finish his palaver with Crazy Horse and head back to the Cheyenne village.

As he watched the Indians ride down the path, it was easy to tell which was the man he hunted. He smiled again, pleased his vigil had paid off. He wasn't a man to let a score go unsettled, no matter what the cost. After robbing the gold shipment, he had plenty of money—and little besides revenge to while away his time.

He'd thought for a while the Ashton girl and the big Indian had drowned in the bay—just desserts for a job well done. Then he discovered they still lived.

He shifted his heavy frame on the cold earth, waiting for the men to ride out of sight. It was better this way, he thought—he always enjoyed the personal touch.

The men pushed hard that first day, each eager to return to the village now that the mission, even though unsuccessful, was complete. They crossed range after range of jagged mountains, dipped into deep forested valleys, and emerged again to repeat the cycle. Hawk remembered the hungry villagers he'd left behind. He pressed ahead, his thoughts unusually absent, his mind dwelling on his failure with Crazy Horse, how he could best help them in Sacramento City, and, more and more often, the woman who waited for him back in his teepee.

As they approached the last leg of their journey, the men began to relax. They were close to home; they'd done their best, and there would be a next time.

Feeling lighthearted at last, Hawk called playfully to his companions. “Running Wolf, I'll bet you that new bow of yours and your quiver against my steel knife that I can bag a deer for camp before you can!”

“Not a chance, Black Hawk. It is I who will be the first. My bow and quiver against your white man's knife.”

“Done,” Hawk agreed.

“What about me?” Lean Man cut in. “It is I who shall be the first! I will wager my horse against you both.”

The men laughed heartily and the challenge was laid down. Lean Man circled right; Hawk circled left, and Running Wolf rode straight ahead. They hunted for more than an hour, then all three converged at the river, meaning to ford just above a set of rapids that crashed into a deep ravine. The rifle shot took them by surprise.

Hawk clasped his head as a lightning-sharp flash of pain knocked him from his horse and into the swiftly moving current.

Lean Man leapt from his mount, grabbed the slender branch of a river willow, and leaned far out into the white water in a frantic effort to save his friend. Hawk, face down in the water, passed by out of reach.

Hawk rolled to his side, fighting to remain conscious as the stream swept him toward the rapids. He caught a glimpse of his two friends running wildly along the shoreline, but the current was moving faster than they. Rocks battered him, and his mind swirled close to darkness. He felt the rawhide tie of the medicine bag pull against his neck as it floated to the surface and lifted just above his head. He remembered Sam's words, “It holds good medicine and will ensure your safe return. I love you so much.”

Arms leaden, only a second's breath left in his lungs, he grasped the bag as he crashed over the rocks and into the raging current in the ravine. He imagined Sam's beautiful face, her gold-green eyes, and his fingers tightened on the bag. He clutched the tiny bit of leather to his chest as he slipped into unconsciousness.

A
nother day gone without news of her husband. Mandy had mastered some of the Cheyenne ways, but the waiting seemed endless. Willow Wind, Bright Feather, and Spotted Buffalo Woman were her closest companions, but another woman, Dark Moon Rising, who spoke a little English, began to visit her teepee. She wondered why Hawk had not introduced her to one of the few people she could communicate with before he left but presumed he just forgot, his mind preoccupied with his mission.

Dark Moon was one of the most beautiful women Mandy had ever seen. She was several years older than Mandy, but her legs were long, slim, and firm, and her breasts full. But it was her eyes that set her apart: they were blue, pale blue, the color of the sky on a hot day.

“Dark Moon, how is it you happen to have such beautiful blue eyes?” Mandy asked one evening as she and the girl sat doing some beadwork. Mandy wanted to surprise Hawk with a pair of new moccasins. Willow Wind was helping her.

Dark Moon lifted her pale gaze. Her eyes turned icy. “My father was a white man, a dog soldier. That is how I learned to speak your language. My father taught my mother; my
mother taught me.” She glanced away, then went back to her beading.

Mandy could see she'd picked an unpleasant subject so she tried to lighten the conversation. “Where is your mother? Is she here in the camp?”

“My mother is dead. She was at Sand Creek, as I was. I escaped. She did not.” The words came out in a hiss, and Mandy shivered at the memory. The Battle of Sand Creek, infamous throughout the West, had taken place a little over five years ago. The white version described a great victory against hundreds of savage warriors. The Indians told of a different battle—a defenseless village of squaws and children massacred and mutilated.

From their first meeting, Mandy had sensed something in Dark Moon's nature that made Mandy uneasy. Suddenly she wished the girl would leave. She thought about asking, but it seemed an unreasonable request. Instead she decided just to finish the task at hand. Besides, whatever else Dark Moon was thinking was hidden behind her thick dark lashes. Watching her surreptitiously, Mandy decided to make one last effort to communicate with the willowy girl.

“I'm sorry, Dark Moon. I know it must have been horrible for you. But all whites are not like those soldiers. Some care about what happens to the Indians—”

Scowling, Dark Moon leaped to her feet and spat into the coals of the fire. The fringe on her leather dress whooshed through the air with a violent rush. Without a reply she strode from the teepee, her long legs carrying her swiftly away. Stunned, Mandy felt more than a little shaken.

Three more days passed. Mandy was sure each day would
bring Hawk's safe return. On the second morning of the third week since he'd left, she awoke to the sound of horses and scuffling people outside her teepee. She dressed quickly, certain that Hawk had returned. But instead of the happy sounds of laughter and welcome she expected, a low keening tortured the air.