Cheyenne Captive (22 page)

Iron Knife knew from the black shadows that kept blurring images in his vision that he was near to unconsciousness. He only had another minute or two, maybe one or two good strokes left in his weakening arm before he collapsed into blackness. He was running out of time. If he didn’t kill the Mexican in the next minute, he would collapse from lack of blood and never awaken again.

The Comanchero knew it too. He leered triumphantly toward Summer. “I may gut you so you’ll die slow, hombre.
Comprende
? I want you to see me cut your woman’s ears off!”

Dimly, Iron Knife saw the dragonfly floating slowly outside the circle, its green and gold gauze wings reflecting as it lit on a bright red wildflower. Was it a spirit animal or was it his father returning to help him? The light reflected off the luminous wings again.
Reflection. The sun shone off his blade like a mirror and he knew, he finally knew what the spirit had tried to tell him from the first moment he had seen it.

Iron Knife thanked the spirits silently again as he smiled triumphantly. “You Mexican dog,” he said. “You have just pronounced your own sentence!” And with that, he gave the rallying cry of the Dog Soldier, the high-pitched shriek that sounded like a savage, half-wild ghost or phantom wolf. As he did, he turned his blade so that it caught the sunlight, reflected in the Comanchero’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. In split-second reflex, the Mexican half-closed his eyes, threw his hand up to shield his vision from the blinding dazzle. But Iron Knife took advantage of the moment, jerked the man off-balance, and as El Lobo went down on his back, Iron Knife kicked the Comanchero’s knife out of his hand and out of the circle.

“You pronounced the punishment!” Iron Knife swore as his razor-sharp knife flashed.

The man screamed in pain and protest as Iron Knife cut off his good ear and held the bloody blade to the man’s throat.

There was a long moment of silence broken only by the Spaniard’s whimpering as the man lay on his back, his left hand pinned above his head by Iron Knife’s left hand. His own weapon lay out on the edge of the circle while Iron Knife’s bloody blade was held against the jugular vein of his dirty throat.

As the man whimpered, Iron Knife looked to the old chiefs for directions. The Comanche, Bull Hump, nodded. “You have won fair. Kill him and cut yourself loose from his body!”

The others nodded in agreement as the Comanchero looked around the circle, his eyes pleading like a terrified cur dog. “Please, hombre, I beg you for my life—”

Iron Knife spat in his face. “My woman begged. Did you show her mercy?”

The Comanchero sobbed now, writhing under the edge of the sharp blade. He was so terrified, he wet himself and Iron Knife wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of urine.

The other men laughed in satisfaction and a murmur ran through the crowd. “You have cut off his ear, brave warrior. Now cut his throat while he dirties himself like a papoose!”

“Yes,” someone else shouted. “We want to see him flop around like a headless bird as his lifeblood makes mud beneath him!”

But Iron Knife turned to look toward Summer. “It is your choice. What say you?”

He heard her gasp, saw her strickened face. But he knew her heart, knew what she would say.

“Turn him loose,” she said so softly that he knew she spoke only to him. “Turn him loose. Spill no coward’s blood on my behalf!”

Iron Knife nodded, and with one lightning stroke cut the band that bound him to the other. The Comanchero stumbled to his feet, holding on to the side of his head that dripped scarlet blood down his dirty neck.

Iron Knife wiped his knife on the sand, stuck it back in his belt as he swayed to his feet. “The generosity of Summer Sky gives back your life,” he said. “Now, come no more to the Hevataniu Cheyenne!”

Clouds Above turned to Little Buffalo. “The Comanche are satisfied?”

The other nodded as he looked at the sobbing Mexican. “I have nothing but disdain for the Comancheros. We would not mix with them at all if we didn’t need the guns and powder they trade us.”

Aperian Crow agreed. “I have just lost a good blanket from betting on the wrong man. But the enjoyment of watching your Dog Soldier wield his blade was worth the price. Now the Kiowa and Little Buffalo’s Comanche return to the area of our Sacred Mountains near the Red River to plan our next attack. We are sorry the Cheyenne and Arapaho will not forget the treaty and join us against the whites.”

Bull Hump shook his head. “You are taking the wrong path. Better you should join my clan as we meet with the soldier chief to talk peace.”

But Little Buffalo scowled. “I hope you will not regret it. I do not trust the whites so my clan will keep fighting them.”

Aperian Crow motioned toward the sobbing, moaning Comanchero and sneered. “Someone put this whipped, wetting puppy on his horse so we may leave.”

Iron Knife swayed on his feet and Summer broke loose from Pony Woman’s grasp and ran to him, her shift sliding down her body so that she was almost nude as she pressed herself into his arms.

He could feel her trembling as he gently pulled the shift up to protect her modesty. “It’s okay, Little One.” He swayed on his feet, feeling very weak. Together, they watched the Comanche and Kiowa throw the bleeding, whimpering Comanchero across his saddle and they prepared to ride out.

“Summer,” he said, swaying slightly. “I—I think . . .”

He couldn’t finish the sentence because things were starting to spin around him and Two Arrows stepped forward, caught him in his arms, motioned for Lance Bearer. With Summer hovering anxiously at his side, the two carried him in and lay him down in his tepee.

It was pleasant to lie on the soft fur bed and watch his woman scurry about, bringing him cool water, bandaging his wound.

She peered anxiously into his face as her small hands caressed his face with a cool, wet cloth. “Are you all right?”

He smiled up at her. “Yes,” he said, “my spirit animal or perhaps my father brought me the answer.”

She paused and frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Her hair had dried in the heat of the day and now, as she leaned over him, a small wisp of it brushed his bare chest and he reached up and cupped her full breast possessively. “Summer Priscilla Van Schuyler would never understand,” he said. “She would only laugh at my superstition. Maybe someday . . .”

She bent over and kissed him very, very gently.

The kiss lasted a long moment and when she pulled back, he didn’t take his hand from her breast. “I’m too weak to make love to you, Summer. But I would like for you to make love to me if you would.
Ne-mehotatse.
” He said the Cheyenne words for “I love you.”

“I love you, too.
Ne-mehotatse
,” she whispered in her faltering Cheyenne. Her fingers brushed his skin as she touched his nipples. “I will adore you in a way that you will never forget tonight, my love, and you will only lay there and enjoy what my talented lips and hands can do for you.”

He relaxed with a tired sigh, closing his eyes as he felt her stroke him, touch him tenderly. Her lips covered his and when he reached for her, she dodged his hands. “No,” she ordered. “Lay still and let me show the victor how much the captive appreciates your fighting for her.”

He felt a rising excitement in spite of his weariness as her lips moved over his body. “How long do you plan to keep up this exquisite torture?” he murmured, gazing up at her with half-closed eyes..

Her lips brushed his eyelids. “Until you drop off to sleep, my love, and I lie naked in your embrace.”

“That might take all night,” he whispered, gasping at the exquisite pleasure her seeking mouth was producing in him.

“I’ve got all night.” Her warm breath sent delicious shivers across his skin as her kiss caressed him.

It was not going to be a long night at all, he thought, feeling his pulse beat in a rising crescendo. They would both be too eager to make it last. Even though he was wounded and tired, he could enjoy lying passively, letting her make love to him.

He was asleep moments after she finished. He only faintly remembered her curling up nude in the curve of his shoulder as he dropped off into a deep, healing sleep.

Days blended together into golden and scarlet early autumn warmth. But it was the cool, ebony nights he relished most: nights just made for soft fur beds, love, and passion. His wound gradually healed and he spent his time hunting, visiting with his friends and helping with plans to move the camp to the Rockies. Every spare moment, he spent with Summer in his arms. Having finally found her, he couldn’t get enough of her.

But it ended abruptly one cool morning just before dawn when he was awakened by sudden noise and confusion outside.

Summer sat up, trying to pull the soft fur around her lush bare body. “What’s happening?” she asked.

But Iron Knife was already on his feet, hastily pulling on his clothes. “I’m not sure, but judging from all the confusion, I think it may mean trouble.”

Dogs barked frantically outside and voices yelled and shouted in the general confusion as he hastily pulled on his moccasins. Now he paused to listen to the old camp crier riding through the camp calling out the news.

Summer frowned. “What is he saying?” she asked. “I don’t understand many of his words, but I know he’s saying something about ‘dead’ and
enemy.’”

Iron Knife hushed her with a wave of his hand as he listened intently, feeling his spirits sink as he realized the message.

Summer caught his arm. “You’re in no shape to go out there. You were in a fight only days ago, remember?”

He shrugged her hand off. “Only a small scratch compared to some wounds I’ve survived. I’ve got to get to my uncle. The chiefs will be calling the warriors into Council.

She bit her lip and looked up at him as he paused in the tepee doorway. “It’s trouble, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “A lot of trouble. The crier says the Pawnee have attacked the Hofnowa band of our people in a surprise raid and slaughtered many! Yes, this means plenty of trouble, Little One!”

Iron Knife walked across the camp toward the Council lodge for the hastily called meeting.
Ohahyaa
! What a great tragedy, this attack on one of the smaller, poorest band of Cheyenne.

A light frost shimmered on the ground he crossed. It was now the moon of
Seine
, that which the whites called October, the time when the water begins to freeze along the edges of the streams.

The people of the Hofnowa still straggled into camp, their women weeping. Only a few warriors were without a wound. Even their ponies were sore-footed and limping. Iron Knife’s people, the Hevataniu, mingled with the newcomers, offering food and assistance.

Today the warriors of both groups would meet to decide whether to go to war against the offending Pawnee. Entering the Council tepee, Iron Knife nodded to friends as he went to sit beside his
nahnih,
his cousins. He was careful not to cross between the old chiefs and the fire as he sat cross-legged beside Lance Bearer. His thoughts were in turmoil, knowing that as a warrior he should be eager to take the war trail. But as a man, he longed for the peace and contentment of the winter camp in the Big Timbers where he could leisurely visit with old friends and hunt as it pleased him. But most of all, he thought of all the cold, snowy days and nights curled up before the fire pit with his golden-haired woman. He frowned, thinking he must be growing old, yet knowing it was the love of the white girl who had changed him.

The Hevatanius’ four old chiefs sat once again in regal splendor and with them now sat the three surviving chiefs of the Hofnowa. The fourth had been killed in the attack on their camp. Iron Knife remembered seeing his wailing women as he came to Council, their legs and faces covered with dried blood where they had slashed themselves in mourning.

The old chiefs began the ceremony of the pipe, offering it as always to the God Above and Below and the
Nivstanivoo
, the Four Cardinal Points. All were extremely careful how they handled the pipe as it was passed around the chiefs, for it was unlucky to touch the stem against anything. The chiefs wore their best ceremonial dress from Scalp Taker and Blue Eagle’s scalp shirts decorated with the hair of their enemies to his own
nehyo,
Clouds Above, in his fine blanket and bear claws.

One of the visiting chiefs wore a magnificent war bonnet much like his father’s.

His uncle spoke. “Our friends and relatives north of here have been attacked, as most of you know. Chief Coyote Man will tell of it.”

Clouds Above sat back down in great dignity and the other chief in the war bonnet stood and regarded them stoically. Iron Knife thought with admiration that Coyote Man’s war bonnet was the finest he had ever seen, except for his father’s. It was made of gray eagle feathers, the best regarded of the three breeds of eagle they knew. Those were finest, of course, because it was assured that the wearer of gray eagle feathers was protected against bullets and arrows. Each feather advertised an important coup in the warrior’s life and this bonnet’s long tail of feathers reached almost to the ground.

After a long pause for drama, the old man began. “Brothers of the Tsistsistas, my heart is sad.” He spoke softly but the sound carried throughout the tepee, for the men scarcely breathed, so intent were they on his words. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and, outside, the keening of a bereaved woman. “A little more than two days ago,” the chief said solemnly, “we were attacked north of here by that traditional enemy of our people, the Skidi Pawnee. They caught us asleep in our blankets and killed many, including women and children.”

Heads nodded and a slight murmur went around the big circle. Iron Knife grimaced, thinking of the Skidi. First, they had caused the death of his mother and, a decade ago, a party of them had killed his father and taken the war bonnet. Most unthinkable was the fact that more than two decades ago, they had stolen the Cheyenne’s Sacred Medicine Arrows.

“It is not only that the Pawnee often war on us along with their allies, the Crows, the Shoshoni, and the Ute. Worse than that is the fact they often scout for bluecoat white soldiers and thus help drive us and our old friends, the Arapaho and the Sioux, from our traditional hunting and camping grounds.”

There was a long silence as all the men considered this unspeakable sin, that Indian should help the white against other Indians.

Clouds Above stood and spoke in the silence. “We all know this is true.” He nodded. “But the Pawnee are our enemies for a more terrible reason! They alone have stolen our sacred talisman! I was there the day that it happened. The arrows were being carried ahead of us into battle by Bull, the great Medicine Man. They were tied to a lance and a Pawnee managed to grab the lance and we fled the field in panic because of what Sweet Medicine had warned us about losing these holy objects. Our folk hero was right, of course, we have had bad luck continually since we lost the arrows. Only the intervention of our friends, the Sioux, managed to get two of the arrows returned to us and while we have made two new ones to replace the two the Pawnee did not give back, the new seem to lack the good medicine of the originals.”

Coyote Man folded his arms and nodded in agreement. “The leader of the Skidi that attacked the Hofnowa played a major role in the taking of the Sacred Arrows. He has also killed many of our braves.” He held his arms out for emphasis. “Warriors of the Hevataniu, I come to ask you to take the pipe and join us in going after the Pawnee band and its leader, Kiri-kuruks!”

Kiri-kuruks, the Pawnee word for Bear’s Eyes
. Iron Knife’s anger at the name almost made him jump to his feet and disrupt the proceedings, an unthinkable action.
Bear’s Eyes.
The name brought back all the horrible memories.

Lance Bearer must have felt him tense, for he reached out and grabbed his arm to keep him down. “You dare not interrupt the proceedings!” he whispered through clenched teeth although there was already murmuring among the gathering as the men glanced toward Iron Knife to see his reaction at the name.

“That is the ugly dog who killed my father and no doubt still has his war bonnet!”

“I have heard this,” Two Arrows whispered. “I have heard my father speak of the day when Bear’s Eyes and his braves killed his older brother.”

Numb with shock and anger, Iron Knife slumped back down in the circle as the memories came flooding back. He was a youth again and it was his very first battle. His two cousins had been too young to fight. The Cheyenne had been outnumbered and surrounded but they had fought bravely anyhow.

Even now, when he closed his eyes, he could see the shaved head and the roached hair of the Pawnee braves and the ugly face of Bear’s Eyes. Even the Cheyenne had heard the story of this man who had looked into the eyes of the terrible grizzly that had mauled and nearly torn his face away after he wounded it with a lance. It had left a terrible, livid scar, making the man’s mouth pull up in a strange, mirthless grin and his left eyelid droop.

A mist came into Iron Knife’s eyes and he could recall his dying father’s warm body in his young arms as Iron Knife tried to stop the scarlet blood that pumped from the lance wound in his father’s chest.

Bear’s Eyes had counted coup on his father, grabbed the war bonnet, and was about to scalp the dying man when Iron Knife galloped up. As though it had happened yesterday, he could smell the sweet, sticky blood that poured warm over his hands as he tried to staunch the wound. War Bonnet had died in his son’s arms even as Clouds Above had rallied the warriors and led a counterattack, chasing the Pawnee from the scene. All these years Iron Knife had lusted for revenge and the chance to retrieve his father’s headgear. Now finally this chance was here and he was torn by inner strife. Why had they not stumbled on the Skidi trail last year or even a month ago, before a small, blond girl had come into his life and made him think love was more important to a man’s life than the war trail?

Coyote Man held up the ceremonial pipe. “I come to ask you to take the pipe and join us in this revenge! You are as saddened as I over the loss of the arrows! Many of you have lost friends and relatives over the years to Bear’s Eyes and his band. Now is the time for your blades to taste their blood! Smoke! And by doing so, pledge to join us on this war party!”

As he sat down, an excited buzz rose as men discussed with their friends whether or not they would smoke. Iron Knife looked around at the others, caught in his indecision. He had waited ten years for this chance and now it was like ashes in his mouth as he looked at the excited men around him. While he should be thinking of taking coups and avenging his father, all he could see in his mind’s eye was a small, heart-shaped face and large blue eyes overflowing with tears as he rode away.

Clouds Above took the pipe and held it a long moment. The noise died a sudden death as he looked around. “I will smoke!” he announced solemnly. “I promise to ride against these traitors to all red men; these stealers of the arrows, these killers of my brother!” He took several puffs from the red clay pipe.

A member of the Fox Soldier band stood up. “I will not smoke!” he announced. “Not because I am afraid, for you all know my battle coups, but because I think the time is wrong. We should gather all the ten bands and renew the Sacred Arrows to give good medicine to this venture before we take to the warpath.”

He sat down and another man stood. “My friend, Lone Beaver, speaks true. We talk of war when what we should be doing is moving our camp tomorrow out of this hostile territory. I will feel safer when we are up in our winter hunting grounds among the Bents on the Arrow Point River, that which the whites call the Arkansas. The Bents are married among our people and it is a good place to be.”

The man sat down and a murmur ran through the crowd again.

Clouds Above nodded gravely. “Everything that has been said is true! We are far to the south and east of our usual buffalo plains hunting deer, for the buffalo seem more scarce this year and we delight in harassing the civilized tribes and stealing their ponies. Also, it is true that we do not have the time at this season to gather in the ten bands and go through the Sacred Arrows Renewal. However, I will take the war trail, for who knows when we shall cross the path of Bear’s Eyes again? But let each man examine his own
tasoom
, deciding for himself whether to smoke or no.”

Iron Knife held his breath and watched the pipe being passed gravely from man to man. Some smoked. Some held it a long moment, considering what his own medicine told him, and with a sigh passed it on, unsmoked. Torn by indecision, he watched the pipe being passed to each of his cousins in turn and they both smoked.

It was placed in his two hands and he stared down at it, the scent of pungent tobacco and
kinnikinnik
drifting to his nostrils. He could feel all eyes turned toward him expectantly because they knew that Bear’s Eyes had killed his father.

The Hotamitaniu, the Cheyenne Dog Soldier, was reared expecting to be killed on the battlefield. It was known that he who held the Dog Rope was certain to die against the tribes’ enemies. He knew it when he took that badge of courage. From his first faltering step, Iron Knife had been told that to die in defense of his people was glorious. And yet. life was very sweet and precious to him now that the small blonde had come into his life.

He hesitated, looking around the expectant faces and saw his uncle frown, perplexed. Iron Knife must smoke, he knew that. No matter what his heart told him he must ride to avenge his father or he and all his family would be laughed at and he would be unwelcome around many campfires.

For a moment, he wavered, regretting the fact that men could not live in peace and then he looked at the grim face of his uncle and thought of his father’s agonizing death. The grinning, misshapened face of Kiri-kuruks came to his mind, laughing as the Pawnee rode away.

Very slowly, Iron Knife raised the pipe and smoked it.
In his mind, love warred against duty but he had sworn by duty first.

His hand trembled ever so slightly as he passed the pipe on and he nodded to his uncle who smiled back in proud satisfaction. The pipe slowly made its rounds and he tried not to think of Summer Sky as he watched it being passed from man to man.

At last, the meeting broke up. More than half had smoked and it was a war party of about thirty or forty men that Coyote Man and Clouds Above would lead tomorrow.

In angry resignation, he thought of the Sacred Arrows as he walked away, not wanting to talk to any of the other warriors. Legend said that when something terrible had happened like murder or was about to happen to the tribe, the arrows themselves would warn them. When next opened for viewing, the shafts of the Sacred Arrows would be stained with blood. He shivered, thinking of Angry Wolf, and wondered if this were true.

He dreaded the discussion with Summer that was sure to come and hoped he might not have to tell her until he was almost ready to ride out in the morning. Sometimes, he thought with trepidation, it was easier for a man to face an armed enemy than an angry woman.

It was apparent she had heard the rumors by the anxious way she confronted him. “Some of the women say men might be riding out against the Pawnee.”

He tried to avoid the unspoken question in her eyes. “A war party will be riding out at dawn tomorrow,” he said impassively.

“The women are uneasy that there will not be time to renew the Sacred Arrows first.” She sounded frightened.

He held his hands out to the fire. “It would take several weeks or more to send out messengers to the other eight bands.”

Summer looked puzzled. “Would they not come?”

“They would come,” he assured her from the fireside. “No one would dare risk the resulting bad luck by refusing to attend. Besides, the soldier societies are empowered to force attendance if need be by burning lodges and killing horses.”

She came over to the fire. “Would it take a long time for the Renewal?”