Sacred Is the Wind (5 page)

Big Marley looked over his shoulder at the old-timer. He shook his head, placed a finger thick as a sausage to his lips, indicating Wister ought to be quiet.

“I ain't talking about a man,” Tom said. He checked the gloom-shrouded figure in the dark corner, imagined him to be impressed. Basking in the power emanating from his older brother's presence, young Tom Bragg threw out his chest and swaggered over to the colonel's table. The whiskey burning in his gut fueled his courage all the more. Too young to receive a commission in the recently concluded War Between the States, young Tom had abandoned an Eastern education and left his grandmother's side in Philadelphia to join his influential brother in the Colorado Territory. Here was adventure and glory to be won. Here in the West was a place for men of valor. He had come to the frontier to fight Indians, and the brave by the fire was the first real Indian he had seen alive and up close. Only one week west of the Mississippi and already an opportunity had presented itself.

Oblivious, or so it seemed to the colonel's brother, Panther Burn ignored Tom's baiting and finished his meal. He was troubled not by the words of Tom Bragg but by the kinship he felt for the
ve-ho-e
youth. Panther Burn too was a man who had something to prove … to his father … and to himself.

Movement in the corner of the room diverted the Cheyenne's attention. The man at the table by the supply barrels rose and approached the hearth, plate in hand. He was dressed in buckskins, frayed at elbows and wrists, a beaded belt girded his middle, there was no narrowing of the waist. The man was broad in the shoulders, chest, hip, and thigh, solid-looking as if carved from stone, and though he stood no more than five and a half feet tall in his calf-high moccasins, he moved with a grace and quickness, with such an aura of formidability that it seemed as if he towered over a man like Marley. Thick red hair hung to his shoulders, a closely cropped beard covered his jaw, and thick red eyebrows lent a brooding quality to his deep-set russet-colored eyes. He wore no weapon save for an “Arkansas toothpick,” a knife whose broad fifteen-inch blade, double-edged and razor-sharp, flashed in the light of the fire. He stepped in front of Tom and leaned across Panther Burn, who resisted an impulse to raise his rifle in alarm. The red-haired man stabbed a chunk of albescent salt pork out of the iron cook pot with his knife and used the broad blade to scoop a portion of beans on top of the meat. He turned and winked at Tom and spoke softly in a deep gravelly voice, menacing in its gentleness.

“Pilgrim, folks around here have enough trouble with the Ute coming over on the dry side, raiding and killing, without you starting trouble with the Cheyenne. Jubal Bragg”—the man looked past Tom to the officer of the militia seated at the table—“you and I seldom see eye to eye. But in this case maybe you better listen up and have your brother take off his war paint before our guest here puts his on.” The red-haired man licked the bean drippings from the blade.

Tom's facial expression wrinkled in distaste for the man's lack of manners. “Now, you look, Sabbath McKean, I'll thank you to mind your own damn business.”

“Suit yourself,” the red-haired man said. “Just strikes me as a shame. A fella ought to be dry behind the ears before he goes off and loses them.” The knife blade flashed in the firelight and rose again with a morsel of fatback speared on the point. Tom started to draw his saber but halted at his brother's voice.

“Enough, lad. You've had your say,” Jubal said, silencing his brother. He glanced at Sabbath to see if the scout was satisfied. McKean nodded.

“Rain appears to be letting up. Why don't you take your brother and Marley here on to Castle Rock,” he suggested.

“Where a kinder visit awaits us, I daresay,” Jubal added. The colonel stood, revealing himself to be a tall, narrowly built man, slender as Tom Bragg but with an air of authority his brother lacked. Two silver dollars clattered onto the tabletop. The colonel returned a third to the belt pouch at his waist. The big man at the bar straightened and snorted in disgust.

“One of these days,” he growled, “I'll learn ye what color your skin is.”

“Anytime, Marley,” said Sabbath McKean, half the big man's size and twice as dangerous. The colonel stepped in front of Tom, gestured for his brother to precede him to the back room and the stairway to the tunnel. Tom grudgingly relented, backing away, turning and leading the way. Marley tugged at the brim of his cap and glowered at wister.

“One day you oughta learn to make rye whiskey, you old fart.”

“Rye? I thought you ordered
lye
,” chuckled Wister, enjoying himself now.

“I trust you will be ready to scout for us when the militia is formed,” Colonel Bragg said to the man called McKean. Panther Burn looked from one to the other. “Some of your friends and neighbors will be riding with us.”

“I'll join you in Castle Rock,” replied McKean. “At least until we push the Ute back over the divide.”

Bragg nodded. The officer looked after his brother. “Tom will learn. He's a good lad and damn if he hasn't spirit. Those Eastern schools couldn't smother that.” He tipped his hat to the scout, spun on his heels, and pointedly ignoring Wister, walked smartly from the room, his pace crisp, direct, as if on parade. At the back door, Tom waited, mustering what he hoped to be a menacing stare that he fixed on Panther Burn and the white man standing by the fire before following his brother out of sight. Sabbath McKean sighed and much to the brave's surprise spoke in Cheyenne.

“So young, so very proud …” Sabbath mused aloud, the phrase one he remembered from his time among the Cheyenne.

“Many are the bones drying in the wind,” replied Panther Burn in kind, “that once were men, young and proud.” The white man nodded, grinning in admiration at the young brave's grit and returning to his table in the shadows. Panther Burn relaxed, grateful the confrontation with the militiamen had not resulted in a fight. The soldier's animosity puzzled him, for it was said that the Southern Cheyenne walked the path of white men. Wister rounded the bar and crossed to the abandoned table, grabbing up the silver coins and dropping them in a pouch beneath his shirt. Panther Burn shifted further from the hearth but within its warmth. The thunder had indeed ceased, and though he could still hear the rain on the roof, it truly had lost intensity.

“Wister …?”

The old man turned.

“I will sleep by the fire.”

“Help yourself,” the tavern keeper said. “Plenty of floor space. And I reckon the excitement's about over. 'Lessen maybe the creek in back rises up and washes us all away.”

Panther Burn's gaze narrowed. “The
o-he-ke
… the creek … what is it called?”

“Why, uh, let's see, in your lingo …” Wister glanced over at the man in the shadows for help. The gravelly voice drifted over to them.

“
Mamaa-estse
,” said Sabbath McKean.

Panther Burn felt the weariness leave him at the name the white man had spoken.
Mamaa-estse!
The Warbonnet! He leaned back upon the warm hardwood floor, closed his eyes, and drifted into sleep, exultant that his journey was over, never realizing it had only just begun.

2

H
alfway into the following day, Panther Burn lay beneath a green canopy of weeping willows. He cautiously settled down in the moist sand along the banks of the War-bonnet. Here where the creek became a broad sun-dappled pool with its golden gleaming stones shimmering below the jeweled surface of the water, four young Cheyenne women frolicked in the shallows. He grinned, shimmying underneath the leaf-tipped streamers, and worked himself into a better position with a more unobstructed view. He counted four actually in the creek-fed pond and seven more lying in various states of undress along the opposite bank, sitting by the water's edge, washing their hair, braiding their thick strands, chattering to each other. One of the four in the water leaped upward. Panther Burn caught his breath at the sight of her lithe tawny limbs and torso rising from the surface of the pond. A flash of coppery skin, small firm breasts crowned by nipples the color of chokecherries. As the young woman slid once more below the surface, Panther Burn grudgingly lifted his eyes to the line of trees beyond the pond, where the creek spilled over a deadwood dam. Columns of smoke rose above the treetops. Sabbath McKean had instructed the young brave to follow the creek downstream in order to find the Southern Cheyenne village. He had not lied and in fact had even expressed an interest in accompanying the Northern Cheyenne. But at the last minute, McKean decided to continue on to the white man's town of Castle Rock, for he was wary of the intentions of Colonel Jubal Bragg. As memories of departure from Foot o' the Mountains faded, the Cheyenne brave returned his attention to the pond. In front of him, beyond the rotting logs, he noticed a pile of buckskin clothing. A thought came to mind as to how he might announce his arrival among his uncle's people. His features brightened in a grin.

Rebecca Blue Thrush burst upward from the pond, her long black hair whipping outward, fanning the other young women with a fine cold spray. Esther Madison, a Cheyenne woman who had taken the last name of her Anglo husband, laughed and shielded herself. Hope Moon Basket, a round-faced portly girl, dove toward Rebecca, determined to meet the challenge, and caught her off guard, knocking her off balance. Rebecca disappeared beneath the water, only to regain her footing and emerge choking and coughing water from her lungs. Esther Madison and Faith Little Shield rushed to help, but Rebecca waved them off, and cupping her hand, swept it across the surface and splashed Hope in the face. She sputtered, caught her breath, and splashed back. Esther, petite but resilient as whipcord when it came to girlish rough-and-tumble play, joined the fray, siding with Rebecca while Faith fittingly supported Hope. From the safety of the opposite bank the other girls cheered on their favorite combatants and wagered their recently gathered berries and roots on who would be the first to cry “enough.” Few were foolish enough to wager against Rebecca Blue Thrush. For the young woman had gained a reputation for persistence—some called it stubbornness—among the people of her village. Rebecca Blue Thrush had beaten even the young men of the village during a race but three months past. It had been a long and arduous course winding from the banks of the Warbonnet to Foot o' the Mountains and back to the village. Rebecca had not been the most fleet of foot among her peers. There were young men and women far quicker. But she had gained victory from simple endurance, a refusal to quit after others had fallen away with twisted ankles, bleeding feet, aching, tortured lungs. Some called it pride, finding blame in her out of anger for besting the young men in the race, others suspected her of spirit help. After all, wasn't she the daughter of Star, the medicine woman? While the young women on the creek bank tried to goad and bait one another into betting against Rebecca, to the surprise of everyone, she turned out to be the first to retreat from the onslaught of her good-natured adversaries. A collective sigh of disgust rose from the creek bank, for no one had cast their lot with poor Hope. Rebecca turned toward the bank where the willows swept the water's edge, stirred by a gentle breeze. Hope. Moon Basket continued to splash until Esther cried out for her to stop. Immediately! Then Esther looked to her companion, sensing Rebecca's concern.

“
Saaaa
… what is it, Rebecca?” Esther said, staring at the willows.

“I do not know. Something.” Rebecca replied, frowning. She shook her head. Water dripped down into her brown eyes and she wiped a hand across her face to clear her vision and brushed back the water-drenched strands of hair. Now the girls on the riverbank fell silent as well. Faith, a solidly built woman whose figure had yet to betray the fact she was with child, stepped up alongside Esther Madison, who shivered as the chill of the spring-fed creek seeped into her slight frame.

“Our clothes,” she whispered to Faith. “Our clothes … on the bank.”

“Someone tell me what is going on or I shall leave,” Hope complained, suspecting all three of her friends of mischief.

Blackbirds swooped low overheard, circled in a lazy arc, dipped en masse toward the willow grove, and then loosed their high-pitched trilling calls as they rode the air currents up from the trees, avoiding the grove and scattering. Rebecca started to shout a warning to the others, just as the horseman burst from concealment. With his rifle the ferocious-looking warrior scooped up one of the buckskin shifts and whirled it overhead, loosing a wild cry. The girls on the bank screamed and scrambled up from the creek to disappear into the woods. In the pond, the four bathers swam toward the opposite bank. The warrior's wild cries only fueled the efforts of the women in the pond. Hope Moon Basket, for the first time in her sixteen years, outdistanced her three companions and was the first to rise soaked from the creek, her chubby form quivering as she clawed her way up the bank. Faith and Esther were not far behind, though. Wet hair plastered to skull and neck and shoulders, they staggered from the shallows. Hope had already vanished down the path through the forest. Faith and Esther lost no time in following, for they could hear the warrior's wild war cry as his horse plunged through the creek in pursuit.

“Quickly,” gasped Esther, stumbling, bracing a hand in the mud and regaining her balance. Her slight build accounted for her speed as she darted toward the trees. Faith did not look back and most certainly did not tarry at the water's edge, but figuring Rebecca to be right at her heels, scrambled up the last few muddy yards and headed down the path after her friends. She prayed those ahead had raised an alarm in the village by now. Esther turned and glanced over her shoulder at Faith a few yards back. She slowed, stopped. Faith Little Shield swerved off the path to avoid a collision and tripped over a surface root. She bruised a shoulder, tumbled, continued to roll until she had regained her footing.