Cheyenne Captive (24 page)

At last, he was ready. He gathered his weapons and the Dog Rope. Around him, other men were mounting up and already the leaders were riding out toward the north as the sun began its rise.

There was only one thing left to do, and after that no woman might touch him until he had returned from battle. He went inside the tepee where Summer Sky stood. She was trying so very hard, he realized as he took her in his arms and saw her mouth quiver. She laid her face against his chest and although she made no sound, she shook in his embrace and he felt the salty wetness of her tears against his skin.

“I want you to come outside with me,” he said and he struggled to keep his own voice firm. “I want you to stand with the other women and see me leave and you will be proud like the Cheyenne and not weep.”

“I—I can’t!” she gulped.

“All right,” he agreed quietly. “Then I will leave you here, for now I must make my final medicine, and after that no woman may touch me.”

She reached up and pulled his face down to hers and kissed him fiercely. “I will come outside. You will have no need to be ashamed of my behavior!”

He had never loved her so much as he did in that moment that she steeled herself and came outside to see him off although he saw her hands clench into fists to hold her composure.

Now he took the magic powder,
Sihyainoeisseeo,
and rubbed it over his whole body to make him invincible and protect him from arrows and lances. And from that moment, no woman might touch him until after the battle; to do so nullified the good medicine of the powder.

Fitting his father’s dream shield on his arm and the Dog Rope over his shoulder, he mounted the Appaloosa and looked down at Summer. “Be ready for a scalp dance when your warrior returns,” he said brusquely, for he could not touch her or say what he wanted to say with people around.

Her stubborn little chin came up and she looked about proudly and no Cheyenne brave would have been ashamed to call her his own. “I await your return,” she said with great dignity and perhaps only he noted that her chin quivered.

Resolutely he wheeled the stallion and joined his cousins as they rode north to fight the Pawnee.

Iron Knife wore his buffalo robe pulled around him with the head hanging on the left, the tail to the right in the Cheyenne manner. He joined his cousins to ride out, shivering a little, knowing it was not just the cold that made him do so. Later on in the day, the weather might be relentlessly hot as was so common in the Indian Territory. He shivered with anticipation and excitement. Gray Dove worked over a pegged-down buffalo skin as he rode past her and she called out, “Kill many Pawnee so we may have a scalp dance when you return!”

He gave her the barest nod of acknowledgment to show her he had heard, but did not smile. His thoughts were only on the small, brave blonde standing with the other women of his family as the trio rode out.

It was a long day. According to custom the war party might not eat or drink the first day until the sun went down. His mouth felt dry and sour and his head ached as he rode beside his cousins. He could not keep his mind from the ceremony of the badger. The ancient, powerful ceremony was seldom performed because the medicine was so great, the tribe feared it.

Once several years ago, he had taken part for he yearned to see his own future and what he had seen was not good. The men had ceremoniously killed a badger, ripping open its belly to allow blood to collect in the visceral cavity. Then they had laid it on a bed of white sage on its back with the head pointed east. The next morning, those who dared had walked naked with unbraided hair past the dead animal, looking at their reflections in the pool of congealed blood.

It was said a man could see his future this way. If a man saw his reflection staring back at him with wrinkled skin and gray hair, he would know he would live to be an old man. If the reflection’s eyes were shut and the face shriveled, he knew he would die of disease. Iron Knife had hesitated and looked, seeing his reflection young and covered with blood and knew he would die in battle.

No man told another what he had seen although those who saw themselves dying young were often downcast and sorry they had looked into the future. Iron Knife had conflicting emotions about it. Since he knew his fate, he had decided to live life to the fullest.

He sighed as he rode, shifting his weight on the big horse. He had not told Summer of the badger for he was half-afraid she would laugh at the idea and he believed it so strongly. He wondered if this was the raid that would see his death and he was tempted to turn around and go back.

Perhaps the ceremony was foolishness like some of the other ideas, such as never speaking to your mother-in-law and not pointing a knife at a wolf while on a war party. Deep in his heart, his white half told him that many of the old tabus were nonsense, and yet his Indian half was afraid to test them. The constant conflict often brought turmoil into his life.

The sun beat down on them relentlessly as they moved north. It was unseasonably warm for autumn and the dream shield hung heavy on his arm. The shield was fringed around the edges with the feathers of gray eagles and sandhill cranes with bear claws sewn to the four cardinal points of the circle. In the middle was a large painting of a dragonfly because this insect was great medicine, darting about, hard to see, hard to capture or kill.

The shield had held special significance for his father, War Bonnet. Between the wings of the dragonfly was painted one small, bluebonnet flower to represent
Tejas
, Texas. That wild area south of here had been the scene of many successful horse raids before the Cheyenne had made peace with the Comanche. He knew there was some other significance of the bluebonnet to the fierce chief and he thought now of his mother, the girl stolen from a north Texas wagon train; the girl with bright blue eyes. The day after his father’s death, he had a dream vision that the dragonfly should be his spirit animal, too.

On this war journey, the Cheyenne brought a
moinuenuiten
, a horse doctor, with them as many war parties did. He was to do the magic in order to protect the ponies and care for them should any be wounded in battle. Iron Knife could see him riding ahead in the long line as they moved through the sparse number of trees turning gold before the coming onslaught of cold weather. The sumac bushes grew fiery red as always at this time of year.

As they rode toward the Kansas plains, the landscape became more flat with tall bluestem and prairie grasses moving in the breeze like an emerald ocean. He felt at home on the bare prairie because it was more like the usual buffalo plains of the Tsistsistas.

The
Hotamtsit
chafed his body and he could feel the sweat under it as he looked down at the narrow, bright band decorated with feathers and porcupine quills. It was draped over his right shoulder and under his left arm. The rest of its ten-foot-length he carried over his arm. He tried not to look at the red-painted wooden stake tied to the end of the Dog Rope and hoped he would not be called upon to use it. He had used it before and thought nothing of it. But life seemed much more precious to him now, and he regretted that long-ago decision to accept the honor that had been offered to him because of his past bravery in action. Perhaps he should consider giving it up to a younger man.

It seemed a lifetime before the war party finally camped at sunset by a muddy stream shaded by a small grove of cottonwood trees. He felt almost faint with hunger and he dismounted. He was a big man and his body needed much nourishment. But even now, he might not rush to the stream and slake his burning thirst because of custom.

He licked his dry lips in anticipation, waiting for the young Sihivikotumsh who carried the leather water dipper at the end of a pole. The water was offered first to the leaders of the party, and then the boy worked his way down the line offering it to each in turn. The water was slightly muddy and tepid, but Iron Knife drank deep, letting it run down his chin. The pole was stuck in the ground until the next time it was needed.

Once Iron Knife himself had carried the
histahhevikuts,
as it was considered lucky to be the one to carry it on his first war party, even though it was a great deal of trouble.

The fire was built, and the work of readying the camp fell to the young boys and novice warriors. Iron Knife settled himself by the fireside with his cousins as befitted a brave of many coups. He waited for the boys to cook several quail and rabbits that had been killed that afternoon. Another man had shot a straggling buffalo, and Iron Knife watched pieces of it being dropped into a hide cooking-pot where the water was brought to a boil by dropping hot stones into the water. As carrier of a dream shield, he must take care not to eat of the heart.

The leaders of the party must not break the tabu of skinning or cutting up any animal that the party might have killed before battle. The leaders were forbidden to eat certain parts of the buffalo such as the head, the tongue, or the hump until after they had killed an enemy in the coming fight.

Iron Knife sat next to his cousins and ate, licking his fingers. The stewed meat tasted delicious to one who had been all day without food.

The war party leaders must not help themselves to food, another of the endless tabus, so they sat with great dignity and waited for the young boys to offer the meat. And all made sure they did not eat the forbidden parts of the animal.

Finally, after they had eaten, old Coyote Man took out the ceremonial pipe that the leader always carried and lit it. He offered it to the God Above and Below and the Four Cardinal Points before the men solemnly smoked and sang ceremonial songs. Then the old warriors gave the novices advice about the coming battle.

Iron Knife and his cousins had a few minutes to visit by themselves around the fire before wrapping themselves in their robes for sleep. He looked at both of them fondly. They were the brothers he had never had. Lance Bearer was several years older and taller than his brother. He was the son of Clouds Above’s first wife, Pony Woman’s sister, who had died in the cholera outbreak the whites had brought them in 1849.

Two Arrows was shorter, more lighthearted, and friendly like his mother. Both had the handsome, high-cheekboned look of the Cheyenne.

“I want you both to promise me something,” he told them.

They nodded gravely.

“If I am killed in this coming battle,” he said, looking from one to the other, “promise me that you will go to your father and the old chiefs and see if you can prevail on them to let my woman return to her people.”

He saw them exchange disapproving glances. “Why do you not ask our father yourself?” Two Arrows nodded to where the old man sat in Council with the other war leaders.

“Now is not the time.” Iron Knife shook his head. “The old chiefs think only of tomorrow’s problems and, besides, if I live, no one will have to ask them anything. If I do not, and they will not release her, I want one of you to take her.”

Lance Bearer frowned. “I think it bad medicine to talk death before a battle.”

“That may be so, but I cannot go into this raid with an easy heart if I thought Summer Sky would not have a warm place to sleep and food in her belly.”

Two Arrows sighed. “I want no other but Pretty Flower Woman, but if need be I would take your woman.”

“If something should happen to either of you, I promise to look after your women.” Lance Bearer nodded. “Although, that trio of daughters old Coyote Man brought into camp with him has quickened my heart.”

Iron Knife laughed in spite of himself. “If you should take all three of those girls to wife, you would have to give up the war trail, for you would not have strength enough to lift a lance!”

The other smiled only slightly, for he was a somber young man, bowed down with the responsibility of the Dog Rope. “Two of the four Dog Ropes are supposed to be carried by unmarried men,” Lance Bearer said. “But if you are actually going to marry the white woman, you will take the place of the man who died a few weeks ago. I have been thinking of marrying myself and giving up the
Hotamtsit.”

“It is a great responsibility,” Iron Knife agreed, staring into the fire. He was not thinking of battle or the
Hotamtsit,
he was thinking of Summer Sky.

Later, as Iron Knife curled up on the ground in his warm robe and looked at the stars, he thought of the ekutsihimmiyo, the Hanging Road to the Stars the whites called the Milky Way. His people believed that dead warriors rode dream horses through the endless skies and he wondered about his father and whether he would soon be joining him on his forever ride. He heard the faint song of the war party leader as the man sang a spirit song for the coming fight. Finally, he dropped off to sleep, but he awakened in the night, reaching automatically for a small body that was not there.

Several days passed as they rode north with their scouts, known as “wolves,” scouting miles ahead of them, looking for some sign of the enemy. It was not hard to track the Pawnee. People and horses must have water, and there were only a few creeks on the arid Kansas plain where water was to be found. Late one afternoon, the scouts came galloping back, howling excitedly to show they had spotted the enemy.

Iron Knife’s heart beat faster as he helped build a quick ceremonial mound of dirt and then joined the half-circle of warriors dismounted to sit around the little mound. The scouts rode in and circled them five times before sitting down across the mound from the war party.

His pulse quickened as Coyote Man offered the scouts the ceremonial pipe, saying, “What you report must be true.”

The scouts smoked solemnly to pledge that what they were about to report was indeed the truth.

“We have seen the enemy camp not more than two hours’ ride north of here. We know it is Bear’s Eyes’ band. We recognize some of the horses grazing there as ponies stolen from our Hofnowa when we were raided a few days ago.”

After the report was completed, the group sang the war song the Shaman had given them before they left their own camp.

It was a somber group as each man checked over his horse and equipment, contemplated his own medicine and future. They awaited that hour before dawn when they would attack.

The youngest braves were in a great state of excitement as they moved nearer to the Pawnee so they would be ready for the attack. Many were hoping for their first coup and the older warriors told stories of earlier fights. Iron Knife watched them, feeling old and tired. He did not feel the thrill of the coming battle, but then it was not new to him, for he had counted many coup.

Killing an enemy was admired, and scalping gave tangible evidence of the kill. But to count coup, touch the enemy with a stick or the bare hand, was even better for it showed raw courage and that was what the Cheyenne admired most. The Cheyenne allowed three coups to be counted on the same enemy, the Arapaho, four. Thus, in a battle where the two friendly tribes both fought, seven coups could conceivably be counted on the same man. A Cheyenne warrior was allowed one feather for each coup, so a man wearing a long-tailed war bonnet such as Coyote Man’s showed evidence of many fights.