Sacred Is the Wind (3 page)

“I am no woman to be ordered about. I am not your slave. You had no right to take my whiskey.” He cleared his throat and spat on the ground, almost losing his balance. He steadied himself. “We have never walked in the same path, you and I, so you taunt me, you insult me.”

“We have never walked in the same path.” Panther Burn nodded without looking at the smaller man. “But I threw the white man's crazy water from camp because you had had enough. You and High Walker, both. And we are not safe among the lodges of our people on this night.”

“Liar. Black liar. I say you seek to shame me.” Knows His Gun slipped a knife free from its scabbard at the small of his back. Neither Little Coyote nor High Walker made a move, each was loath to precipitate violence against one of their own. Knows His Gun moved forward, the knife blade extended from his fist. “I am Knows His Gun … swift as the hawk, strong as the silvertip … a scourge to those who would be my enemy … come, I am not afraid of you, come and kill me if you can.”

“It will hurt,” said Panther Burn, his black eyes deep and merciless. His voice was soft, spoken for the man with the knife, a gentle voice that cut through the whiskey-fed bravado and sowed the seeds of fear, more deadly than a knife thrust. Knows His Gun could not withstand the bleakness in those dark eyes, the bitter truth in the quiet solemn voice. It would hurt … a lot. And then he would be dead. The knife blade wavered, and lowered at last. Knows His Gun turned and walked back to his bedroll and slumped down upon his blankets. He closed his eyes, groaned, and passed out, his last thought that it was better to sleep in shame than die.

High Walker sighed and stretched back out on the ground. Little Coyote continued to his own blankets, where he checked his rifle before reclining. Warmth radiated from the glowing coals of the campfire, the sky overhead was clear and ablaze with stars, his belly was full, it had been a good hunt. He looked over at Panther Burn, who sat staring at the coals.

“Knows His Gun was drunk with whiskey,” Little Coyote said. “Do not let it trouble you.” He folded his hands behind his head. “It is my way to brood over such things, not yours. Tomorrow we start home, the hunt is over.
E-peva-e
, it is good.”

“The song to welcome us to our village has yet to be sung,” Panther Burn replied. He continued to stare at the blood-red coals. Panther Burn's uncle had looked into such a fire as this and found the name for his newborn nephew amid the dancing flames, had been given a vision of a mountain cat watching him from the livid coals, a panther burning … burning in the night.

“What are you telling me?” Panther Burn challenged the pulsing coals, the voice of his thoughts, soundless as starlight, unnoticed by his companions.

Immense stands of white pine circled the broad clearing. Clouds overhead looked like vast snow-covered granite peaks grown miraculously airborne and drifting eastward, casting sullen somber shadows on the earth below, dampening the festive brilliance of the sun. A day homeward from the valley of the buffalo, the four hunters drew abreast of one another. Behind them, the two packhorses trailing their travois obediently halted. The Cheyenne waited, under cover of the forest. They watched from the edge of the clearing as a single rider entered the meadow almost directly across from them. Still two hundred yards away they could see he was not Cheyenne, but Crow. A lone Crow warrior, perhaps lost, foolishly revealing himself to the young Cheyenne braves.

“We are hunters,” Little Coyote whispered, turning to Panther Burn, fearing that where he led the others would follow.

“We are Cheyenne,” Panther Burn replied. “And here rides our enemy so contemptuous of us that he makes no effort to hide himself.”

“We have much meat to bring to our village.” Little Coyote glanced at the others, then back to his friend.

“I think I will count coup on this Crow and gain a lodge of my own among the clan of my father. Yellow Eagle himself will call me Dog Soldier,” Panther Burn said.

“I too will ride against this Crow,” Knows His Gun spoke up.

“And I in turn,” added High Walker. “Come, my brother,” he returned to Little Coyote, “is it not your wish as well to be counted among the bravest of the brave? Let us count coup on this Crow warrior and capture him. We will bring him to our village so that all may witness our brave deeds. The young women will make songs for us, will sing to us near the rushes of the river.”

Panther Burn checked the surrounding forest, saw no other movement. This had to be the handiwork of the All-Father providing him the opportunity at last to prove himself. He reached behind and unfastened the extra packets of smoked buffalo hump and allowed them to drop to the pine-needle-carpeted earth.

“Will you come, my friend?” he asked of Little Coyote. The pinto pawed impatiently at the ground as if sensing the rider's anxiousness. Little Coyote glanced down at the packet on the ground.

“I do not find it so easy to discard my responsibilities,” he said, a strange sadness in his eyes.

“I will return for them,” Panther Burn replied. The other two braves were likewise freeing their mounts from unnecessary encumbrances. Panther Burn kept the rawhide scabbard over his rifle the better to strike his enemy without killing, thus braving death and counting coup. Knows His Gun notched an arrow, then remembered at the stern glances of the others what must be done. He returned the arrow to his quiver. He would use his bow to strike the Crow warrior. High Walker handed his Hawken rifle to Little Coyote and tore a limb from a nearby piece of deadwood, then flashed a grin.

“Use a switch to strike a Crow dog,” he laughed. Little Coyote did not appear amused. Something was troubling him, but the others ignored his somber expression.

Panther Burn looked upward at the limitless reaches of cloud-dappled heaven. He pointed and spoke. “You see, my brothers, the sky is empty. Today, I will be the hawk.” He breathed in the sweet cold air. The March wind ruffled the gray feathers fastened in his hair. He felt a part of earth, tree, sky, wind … and the world seemed to pause, to hold its spirit breath as if waiting in readiness.

The figure in the meadow drew closer now. A man on a brown mare, clad in buckskins, black feathers woven into the striking topknot of hair curling forward over his forehead, he carried a rifle and a war shield painted yellow and fringed with six black feathers. The world waited as if drawing the rider in the meadow closer still. At last Panther Burn could contain himself no longer. Loosing a wild cry, he drove his heels into the flanks of his pony. Horse and rider shot from the clearing.

“
Haaa-yaaaa-iiii!
It is a good day to die,” shouted Panther Burn, brandishing his rifle in its scabbard. “Come, my enemy. We will do battle this day.” The Crow warrior drew up sharply, then wheeled his horse and took off back the way he had come. Surprised at such behavior, Panther Burn glanced over his shoulder and was dismayed to find that High Walker and Knows His Gun had not waited, but followed him out of the clearing, ruining the plan. Panther Burn had figured on the Crow standing his ground. Now there was nothing to do but outrun the others and close with the Crow in hopes of engaging him in combat. Panther Burn leaned forward over the pinto, the pony's mane streaking back to whip his rider's cheeks. Ahead, the Crow seemed to falter as if losing a grip on the reins. Gaining ground, Panther Burn urged the pinto on. He could hear the drumming hooves behind him and would have turned to wave off his companions had he not feared losing control of his own racing horse. A fall might well result in a broken neck. So he relied on speed to overtake the Crow's brown mare before the likes of Knows His Gun could join the fight. The Crow angled to the left. Panther Burn followed, trying to cut the brave off. The Crow swerved again, bringing himself within range of the others. Cursing, Panther Burn slapped the rifle across the pinto's flanks to coax the last ounce of speed out of the animal. Suddenly Knows His Gun cut across his path and Panther Burn swerved in the nick of time, barely avoiding a collision. The Crow unexpectedly changed course again. Knows His Gun fought his horse, managing to bring it under control. He was hopelessly out of the chase, but High Walker, the last suddenly finding himself first, plunged directly toward the Crow brave and raised his switch to count coup. The fool was charging head-on without regard to safety.

“No!” Panther Burn shouted too late as the Crow raised up his rifle, a breech-loading Springfield, and fired over his war shield. High Walker was blown backward off his horse. He landed on his shoulders, arms and legs outstretched, still holding the pine branch, his body rolled heels over head, came to a halt and settled in the tall grass. Panther Burn slowed to look at his dead companion. High Walker's face seemed frozen in a mirthful grin, as if the circumstances of his own death struck him as a poorly conceived joke. Panther Burn ripped the rawhide scabbard from his rifle. He would count no coup this day, but take a life for a life. The war cry welling in his throat died unspoken as he looked after the departing Crow, now riding directly toward the pine grove from which the Cheyenne had emerged. Black powder smoke masked the clearing, rifle fire erupted from the shadows. Panther Burn watched in horror and helpless understanding as five Crow warriors emerged from the clearing, leading off the pack-horses and travois. The Crow who had lured Panther Burn and the others from the woods turned now and issued a challenge at the two braves in the meadow. The other Crow, one of whom seemed to be sorely wounded, appeared torn between attacking the remaining two Cheyenne and leaving with the stolen travois. Knows His Gun whipped his horse and retreated at a gallop toward the cover of the forest. Panther Burn, utterly sick at heart, leaped down from the pinto. He would make his stand and die here. He raised his rifle and signaled for his taunting enemy to attack him. The Crow argued among themselves and for a moment Panther Burn braced himself for their onslaught. Eventually reason overrode battle lust. The Crow swung their horses around and disappeared into the timber, the last of their jeering insults faded on the thin air. The melee had ended as quickly as it had begun. Panther Burn started walking toward the edge of the forest, his legs trembling with every step as he led the pinto back the way they had come. “Little Coyote!” The Crow had set a trap and he had fallen right into it. His fault, his alone. “Little Coyote!” He entered the line of trees, fearing the worst. “Little Coyote …?” And he found it.

Little Coyote lay where he had died, two steps away from a deadwood barricade. The broken shaft of an arrow jutted from his side, a war club had caved in part of his skull and masked his countenance with brains and blood. The two rifles were gone and his body had been speedily stripped. He lay naked, facedown among the pine needles. So boyish-looking now, so helpless. Slowly Panther Burn squatted by his friend, reached out and placed his hand on Little Coyote's cold right arm. Within reach, as if in final rebuke to the living, caught among the brittle branches of the deadwood, where it had been tossed in a dying last effort, dangled the packet of meat Panther Burn had so easily discarded.

Yellow Eagle, war chief of the Dog Soldiers, emerged from the lodge of his elders, his heart heavy within him. Yet such emotion was not for him to show, not while the eyes of the mother and father of Little Coyote and High Walker were fixed on him. He strode purposefully from the center of the great circle and up the slope toward the lodges of the Dog Soldier Society among which Panther Burn would no longer be allowed to live even though his mother lodged there … even though his father was the leader of the clan. Panther Burn would not be hounded from the village, but if he were to stay, no society would have him, and he must make his camp outside the confines of the great circle. His recklessness had caused deprivation for the food he had lost and grief for the lives. The blame had fallen on him. Knows His Gun escaped guilt, for he had not been the leader of the hunt, and as he had proclaimed before the council, Knows His Gun had only ridden out into the clearing to bring Panther Burn back from his foolhardy attack. Yellow Eagle shook his head and continued up the hill. If only Panther Burn had offered some defense for his actions. Dogs barked in the darkness. Unseen in the night, a woman wailed and mourned and beat her breast. The mother of Little Coyote and High Walker loomed before him. Yellow Eagle paused.

“My sons … where are my sons?” the woman shouted, holding up her arms. She had lacerated the flesh of her forearms, blood covered her rawhide dress. She stumbled, other women stepped forward to bear her off toward the orange glow of a campfire. A man of sure quick steps, a man casting a long shadow, Yellow Eagle betrayed no emotion but walked with the bearing of authority. The Dog Soldiers' own reputation for courage in battle carved a path for him through the curious onlookers eager to know the decision of the elders and chiefs. Dishonor had sullied the lodge of Yellow Eagle, casting its shadow on all who would dwell within. And yet, in his heart, a father is loath to cast away his son. Easier to scar himself, endure any physical suffering than to stare at the flesh of your flesh and say, “I have no son.”

Yellow Eagle paused before his tipi, dreading to the deepest recesses of his being what must be done.

“Panther Burn!”

Nothing.

“Panther Burn!”

Nothing still.

The chief of the Dog Soldiers leaned forward and stepped into the lodge. A solitary figure huddled by the dying fire. Crescent Moon lifted her coppery face.

“He is gone,” she said.

Before her, like an offering of hopeless expiation, resting in the nest of crimson coals, lay a bloody knife, bloodier still the blackened morsel of severed flesh, near the blade … the finger Panther Burn had cut from his left hand in grief.

“Your son is gone,” said Crescent Moon.

Her deep brown eyes were dry. The tears were in her voice.