Sacred Is the Wind (19 page)

“You tried the way of
ve-ho-e
but it was not to be. They killed you anyway, Simon White Bull. But they are wrong to think it ends here. There are still Cheyenne in this world.” Panther Burn heard an approaching horse, and standing, turned to find Sabbath McKean close at hand. The scout appeared to be in shock; his face was devoid of expression, his jaw hung slack, his very pallor a sickly white.

“I think there is nothing more you can do here,
veho-e.
You had better go while I still call you friend,” Panther Burn said bitterly.

“Now, just you wait a minute, younker.” McKean's face reddened to the color of his bristling beard, for Panther Burn's words had struck home. “I've seen the handiwork of your kind, before. So don't you shift this on me. God damn you. God double damn you! It's all of us. Each and every one. We got the beast in us, lad. The beast! And sometimes we let it out and it claws and kills like the mad thing it is. And when it's sated we put the monster back and close the doors and try to forget we loosed it in the first place. Red man or white, we call ourselves something better than we are and try to forget.” Sabbath arched his back and looked toward the faint white rays of sunlight fanning out from behind a barrier of clouds to the west. “Sam Madison! Where were you!” The outcry seemed to sap the frontiersman's strength and he bowed forward over the pommel of his saddle. Panther Burn swung astride his pinto and sat still, struggling with his feelings and with the words of McKean. At last he nodded.

“We will ride together,” the Northern Cheyenne said. He started off toward the forest. Sabbath read the brave's intentions and angled off to the side about twenty feet from the pinto. The scout could see for himself, the tracks showed that many people had broken for the woods, more than could be accounted for by the dead. The two men reached the forest about the same time and entered the shadows. Pine needles muffled the sound of their horses. Here the rich dark loam was scored with tracks that plainly revealed the path the fugitives had chosen in their panic. The forest was as silent and funereal as the devastated land beyond the trees. Panther Burn steeled himself against the sight of more butchery.

“Not a bird, animal, nothing,” Sabbath said, studying the branches. He scratched at his whiskers and shook his head. “It makes me as nervous as a mud dauber in a drought.”

“This is a place of death. Even the spirits have left,” Panther Burn replied.

Off to the left, beyond a thick stand of sentinel pines, a baby started to cry and was quickly hushed. Both men turned toward the sound, then glanced at one another as if not daring to hope. They headed for the river, cutting upstream and winding through the lengthening shadows, seeking … What? Ghosts? Or survivors? Panther Burn recognized a fallen log, a lightning-split pine, the tops of the willows. He had his bearing now. The pond and surrounding glade was a natural place to hide! At last Panther Burn and McKean emerged into a clearing where the soft sandy bank led down to the hidden glade and the pond where the Northern Cheyenne had first caught sight of Rebecca. Now a place of single sweet memory had become a sanctuary for two dozen men, women, and children.

“Thank God,” Sabbath whispered.

Panther Burn could not speak. But his heart soared with gratitude as the frightened remnants of the Southern Cheyenne turned toward these newest arrivals. A ripple of panic swept over the gathering, then became relief as the Northerner was recognized. Panther Burn heard his name called out and from the survivors a bruised, brave little warrior of eight years stepped away from the knot of battered villagers. He held a rawhide tether on the end of which an old blind warrior gamely stumbled after. Panther Burn leaped from horseback and raced across the sand, a cry of thanks on his lips as he ran to embrace Uncle Joshua and the young boy who had saved him.

They spoke of death, these people of the Morning Star. And each had a separate nightmare to recount, how friends and loved ones died in the village by the War-bonnet. Fragments of a tragedy placed together like pieces of a grisly puzzle formed a picture of horror none would ever forget. As the last of the survivors, Hope Moon Basket sobbed out her account of the attack, Sabbath McKean plundered his saddlebags for the food stored in them. Sabbath had brought enough provisions for himself and had intended them to last a couple of weeks. When shared among the survivors of the massacre, his stores were depleted on this first night. He had visited the village before and had counted Simon White Bull among his friends. Though McKean had always been regarded as a friend, many a suspicious glance was cast in his direction, even as the survivors ate his food. He couldn't blame them. The scout ladled out the last of the salt pork, fried bread, and beans onto a little girl's improvised plate, a broad strip of bark, and watched her hurry away from him in fear once she had some food. The scout sighed to himself and returned to Zachariah and Joshua's campfire. Panther Burn sat in the warmth by the dancing flames and listened as Zachariah told his story. The boy's voice trembled as he spoke; from time to time he would dig in the sand with the tomahawk Joshua had given him.

“My mother was gathering roots with three others, I cannot say who, I could not see their faces. The soldiers charged them. I thought they were trying to frighten the women. There was much shooting, much smoke. I saw a man in a blue coat ride into my mother. His horse kicked her. Then a second man rode past where she lay and he fired down at her. The other women were also trampled. I started to run to her. Many guns were firing. White men with long knives rode by but did not see me. The men of our village attacked with the rakes, the hoes, what guns they could find. But the soldiers killed them. I remembered then I was to look after Joshua.” Panther Burn's uncle snorted in disgust as if appalled that anyone should think him incapable of taking care of himself. “I led him here.” Zachariah finished without elaboration, as if an eight-year-old boy leading a blind man to safety through the heart of a raging battle happened every day of the week. “After the white soldiers left, I went to find my mother.” Zachariah's gaze lowered, his head dropped forward. Joshua reached out and placed his leathery old hand on the boy's shoulder. Zachariah choked back his sob.

“He found her,” Joshua said, finishing the boy's tale.

Panther Burn took one of the eagle feathers from his braid, and leaning over to the boy, solemnly and with great authority placed the feather in Zachariah's lap. The boy straightened and looked up at Panther Burn. What passed between them remained unspoken but Zachariah's hand closed around the symbol of his bravery and he wiped the tears from his eyes. Warriors did not cry.

Sabbath's shadow fell across them. The white man squatted by the campfire and held out his hands to the flames. An almost palpable hatred radiated from Zachariah. Sabbath tried to ignore the boy and turned his attention to Panther Burn. He noticed the untouched plate of food by the Northerner.

“Rebecca hasn't come in yet.” Panther Burn shook his head “no.”

“You tell her where we are?” Panther Burn nodded. “What'd she say?”

“She did not speak to me,” said the Northern Cheyenne.

“Well, we better have a talk,” the scout said, “you and me, laddie.” Sabbath glanced about, then lowered his voice. “It ain't over. Not yet. Not by a long shot.”

Panther Burn frowned at Sabbath. “I do not understand what you are saying.”

“Then listen. What happened today was a terrible wrong. The soldiers, the townsfolk, everyone—by now they're starting to realize if the truth of this attack ever gets out, the Army will enforce the law and round up each and every one of them. Bragg sure as hell ain't about to sit still for that. He's gonna start thinking. And the thoughts ain't gonna be pretty. There's only one way to keep the truth from being told—make sure nobody is alive to tell it.”

“He will be back,” Panther Burn softly concluded. He glanced across the leaping flames at the broken, frightened remnants of the Southern Cheyenne huddled by their fires. They were a lost and leaderless people. Slowly he stood, knowing what must be done, wondering if he had the wisdom or courage to do it. “Hear me, my brothers and sisters!” Faces turned toward him, dark, haunted features waited for him to continue. “Tomorrow we will leave this place of sorrow and death. We will head north, to Spirit Mountain and the hunting grounds of the Northern Cheyenne. My father shall be your father; my mother, your mother; my people, your people.”

“Our place is here,” Hope Moon Basket cried out.

“If you would die here when the soldiers return, yes, your place is here. But if you would live, then you must head north. And you must leave with the rising of the sun.”

“Spirit Mountain is far away. Who will lead us on such a long journey?” an old woman asked in a frail, fearful voice.

Panther Burn did not hesitate. “I will lead you,” he said.

Rebecca knelt by the ruins of her mother's house. She had settled back on her heels, and with the fading light, lost sight of the outstretched arm amid the ruins. She did not need to see, in fact the darkness was more merciful, for it allowed her to form an image in her mind of Star, radiant and alive.

“Our Father … who art in heaven …” said the young woman, speaking the prayer of the one God in whom Rebecca had learned to place her trust. Sam Madison had taught her the prayer. He said the words were powerful. Rebecca needed power this day. So she prayed and as she recited the words for the hundredth time her fingers stole up to clasp the medicine bag hung around her throat and other words came to mind. The primitive and the Christian prayer, mingling, became one. “… who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name … All-Father. Thy name … kingdom come … The All-Father calls us by our secret name, calls us home to his lodge … thy will be done, on earth … The All-Father calls us and we must go. And it is good … as it is in heaven.”

Two prayers, one heart, one soul divided between the old and the new.
Oh, my mother, you knew, and yet you sent me away. Why?

“Rebecca,” Panther Burn said.

The young woman gasped, startled, rose and spun to face the Northern Cheyenne intruder. The air was cool and heavy with rain. Yet the clouds that had driven the moon from the sky and blanketed the stars refused to loose their burden upon the thirsty earth.

“Rebecca, come to the fire,” said Panther Burn. “There is food. And you will need it. We start north tomorrow. To Spirit Mountain.” Rebecca did not answer. “Come, I will walk with you,” said Panther Burn, and he reached out to her, drawing closer in the process. Rebecca slapped his hand away where it brushed her arm.

“You brought this,” she hissed. “It is your doing. My mother knew. She said you were the one. A man from the north bringing terrible changes. And if you had not come, then none of this would have happened. My mother and her people would still be alive!”

“Rebecca, no …” Panther Burn tried to catch her flailing arms. The wind rushed past, in a sudden furious gust, moaning like the spirits of the dead, a chorus of accusation. Rebecca slapped the Northerner across the face, her fists pummeled his chest and shoulders. He endured blow after blow and made no move to defend himself. She bruised his ribs and drew blood as she raked his cheek. At last, her strength spent, Rebecca sank to her knees in the ashes of the buffalo grass and with the dying of the wind wept for her people, for her mother, and for herself. “I … wish … you … had never … come to our village. I wish you had been … killed … on the way.”

The sight of her was more than Panther Burn could bear. Perhaps she was right. It wouldn't be the first time he had caused a death. He touched his scarred left hand, an awful realization welling in his soul.
All-Father, am I to blame? Not again, please not again.
He had almost buried the pain in his heart, the terrible burden that had driven him in shame from his father's lodge. Now it returned full-blown and awesome in the presence of yet more death, more suffering. But to pursue the thought was madness. And a madman was of no use to the few survivors. So he forced himself not to think, not to feel at all. “Woman, we leave at sunrise,” he said in a hard, emotionless voice. “You are coming with us if I have to tie you to your horse. Say your prayers, but do not forget to save your life.” He turned on his heels and walked back toward the woods. His footsteps receded in the darkness, leaving Rebecca alone once more. She started to call out to him, to tell him she did not really wish he had died, but the words melted in her breast, remained unspoken. She hated him as she hated the gods who had used him.
And yet, Mother forgive me,
she silently prayed,
I cannot cut the love from my heart. But I will learn to. I must learn. I must.

The western horizon shimmered with distant lightning, followed by a drum of thunder, ominously nearer than the night before.

9

A
day's ride north from the valley of the Warbonnet, from the place of vultures and ashes and rain-washed bones, Jubal Bragg left the encampment where thirty of his men huddled in their tents. For three days it had rained steadily. Twenty yards up the nearest slope the orderly row of canvas tents was indistinguishable against the downpour's gray backdrop. A cold camp, cold biscuits and beans, rainwater to drink unless some weatherbeaten soldier built a lean-to to keep his fire dry long enough to brew coffee. Yes, there would be coffee, Bragg thought to himself. He had every confidence in the abilities of his men.

However, they couldn't catch ghosts. And ghosts were what they were chasing, now that the three days of rain had washed out the tracks of the survivors and made following them well nigh impossible. Bragg climbed to the top of the hill. The muddy slope sucked at his boots until he gained a shelf of granite, then the way became slick and threatening. Bragg didn't slip. Not once. And when he reached the summit he stood, huddled in the sodden wool folds of his greatcoat, and turned his burning eyes toward the north. Water dripped from the hard flat brim of his hat with its sad soaked plume drooping off the back and plastered to the caped coat. Jubal stared down at the pool of water forming in his cupped hands. No wind stirred. The rain fell in straight thick sheets; slackening, a tantalizing ruse as nature sought to raise a man's hopes, then increasing again.