Seize the Sky: Son of the Plains-Volume 2 (35 page)

Pouring out of the mouth of the upper Medicine Tail Coulee and into the lower gully that reached all the way to the Greasy Grass itself, rode a long column of pony soldiers.

“Soldiers come!” The Oglalla messenger beat frantic heels against his pony’s flanks and tore off to carry his warning to the north.

“We must stop these soldiers,” one of the Santee Sioux warriors shouted, rallying those around him. “To the ford! We will cut off their charge!”

As most of this crowd dashed off toward the river, a small, ugly mob rumpled into camp from south of the Hunkpapa circle. These Santees had just captured an old friend who long ago had married a Santee woman. Now that this prisoner rode with the pony soldiers, the Sioux realized they had every right to consider Isaiah Dorman a traitor.

A big black-skinned Arikara interpreter, Dorman begged for his captors to kill him quickly and be done with it, savvy enough to know what fate awaited him if they did not.

“Just kill me now and throw me away! Kill me!” he shouted in Sioux at his tormentors.

Instead, one of the Santee men spit into his shiny black face and rubbed his spittle on the soldier’s eyes.

“You do not deserve to die like a man,
Teat!
” a warrior shouted Dorman’s Santee name, given him because of the dark color to his skin, like a nursing mother’s nipple.
“Instead, we will give you over to the women for their amusement. A traitor like you deserves no better than a camp dog’s death.” He turned to the women. “Tie him to a tree!”

After they lashed Dorman’s arms and legs to a cottonwood so he could not fall, they started using the soldier for target practice. The Santees filled his legs with so many bullets, he could no longer stand, collapsing suspended against his rope bindings. Only then did the archers begin their grisly work. Again and again they fired arrows into Dorman’s body, but none of them enough to kill him right off.

“We don’t want you to die quickly—not the death of an honorable man,” an old man growled into the black face shiny with beads of sweat and pain. “You must die like a dog butchered for the pot. I want to hear you whine and whimper!”

When at last they cut him down from his tree, the Santees dragged the black soldier onto the prairie, where they stretched his body out among the hills of a prairie-dog town. Here the squaws continued their gruesome work, hacking little pieces of black-pink flesh from arms or legs or chest, bleeding him into tin cups that they repeatedly poured into an old blackened and battered coffee pot.

“
Wasichu sapa
must die slow!” one old hag spat into his face. “Black white man must die hard!”

In the midst of his painful torture, Isaiah Dorman harkened back to that last morning at Fort Lincoln, remembered his Santee wife tearfully telling him of her nightmare, begging him not to ride with Custer.

Now all the Negro soldier could do was die alone. His was a one-man job if ever there was one. Isaiah didn’t have the strength to cry out anymore, not with all the pain he had to endure, not with all the blood seeped from his body, drop by tormented drop.

Dorman just didn’t have the strength to do anything but die. And he did that just as bravely as he could.

Oglalla warrior White-Cow-Bull had stayed up into the early morning hours celebrating with the others their victory over Red Beard Crook.

His head ached from too little sleep and too much dancing as he lumbered up from the timber by the river, where he kept his wickiup with other young bachelors. The Cow wandered to a fire tended by an old woman, its greasy smoke rising to the hazy midmorning sun that boded a sultry summer day.

“Old woman,” he declared as he stood over her hunched skeletal form, “give me some food.”

For a long moment she stared up into the sunlight at the warrior, blinking her moist, rheumy eyes. Among the Sioux it was custom for young warriors without families of their own to be fed by those they supplied with camp meat. She-Runs-Him recognized White-Cow-Bull and speared some chunks of meat from her battered kettle for his breakfast.

“This day the attackers come to our village,” she slurred, gumming the words from a toothless mouth as she presented him the steamy bowl.

“How is it you know this, Grandmother?” he addressed her in polite form.

“I know no more but what I see behind my eyes,” she answered before disappearing into her lodge.

He knew she would not put her head out until he had finished his breakfast and was gone.

With nothing better to do this late morning, the young Oglalla determined to ride north to the Cheyenne camp in hopes of catching a glimpse of Monaseetah. When she had refused his offer of marriage, her words hurt like the cut of the Sun Dance knife—yet, if he tried again, perhaps he still might win her.

He must convince her that her soldier-husband would never return for her. It had been far too long already. Seven years should be long enough to wait for anyone. The soldier’s son waited all this time at his mother’s side.

Long enough to wait for any man—especially for a lying
wasichu
soldier.

“Let me help you with that,” the Cow declared when he found Monaseetah dragging some deadfall up from the river with Yellow Bird at her side.

“I can manage.” She smiled the brave, pretty smile of hers that lit up her face. “I have learned to manage on my own.”

Rebuffed in a gentle way, White-Cow-Bull turned off to visit Roan Bear, a Cheyenne friend who this day as a member of the Fox clan was in charge of guarding his camp circle. The Bear sat protecting the lodge where his Northern Cheyenne people kept their Sacred Medicine Hat made of the hide of a buffalo head and its horns. While the Southern Cheyenne revered their holy Medicine Arrows, these northern cousins revered the Hat.

In the welcome shade of that sacred lodge, Roan Bear and White-Cow-Bull, proven warriors both, shared again their favorite war stories and tales of a first pony raid. Above their laughter the sharp crack of rifle shots came from the south on the dry breeze.

Both leapt to their feet about the time a young Oglalla rode into camp shouting.

“Pony soldiers! Pony soldiers! They attack the Hunkpapa circle! Come! Come help in Sitting Bull’s vision!”

“We go!” The Cow shouted, grabbing his friend’s shoulder.

“No,” Roan Bear answered softly. “My duty is with the Medicine Hat. Because of the danger, I must take it far away to the prairie beyond the pony herd. There it will be safe from our enemy dirtying it. Only when another Fox warrior comes to relieve me, can I go fight the soldiers. Only when I know the Hat is safe, can I offer myself in battle as a Crazy Dog.”

“Look here at the old one!” White-Cow-Bull pointed out the Cheyenne chief, Lame-White-Man, who rushed past with nothing but a small blanket wrapped at his waist.

“I was taking a sweat bath,” the middle-aged chief announced with a self-conscious smile. “I do not have time to braid my hair, nor do I even take time to dress. With my rifle and this belt to hold my blanket up, I am ready to fight the pony soldiers.”

“Go, old man!” Roan Bear exhorted. “Go and fight well this day!”

“Bear!” a young Fox warrior cried out, loping out. He carried an old smoothbore muzzle loader.

“Sleeps Late? Have you come to carry the Medicine Hat far from the evil ones?”

“Yes,” he answered breathlessly, eyes blinking in the dust many others stirred up. “If you wish to fight, I will carry the Hat into the hills for our people. I would consider it a great honor, brother. A great honor to protect the Hat from our enemies.”

“Go then, little brother.” Bear handed the teenage warrior a fur-wrapped bundle enclosing the sacred object. “Protect it with your life.”

Sleeps Late stopped and turned after a few steps. “Protect our village, Roan Bear. Protect our people with your life.”

“Aiyeee!”
Bear’s voice rose above the tall cottonwoods with the power of a war eagle. “This is so, Sleeps Late! It is a good day to die!”

“Nutskaveho!”
Cheyenne war chief Two Moons rushed by, leading his war pony he always kept tethered at his lodge. “White soldiers on the hills above! Run for your horses! Run for your horses!”

“What is this?” Roan Bear yelled at the chief.

“More soldiers are coming!” Two Moons shouted back over his shoulder. “Some fight the Hunkpapas, and now the others come to attack our own camp circle!
Nutskaveho!
”

The Cheyenne camp belched free its young warriors to join the valley fight near the Hunkpapa village as soldiers dismounted in the timber along the river. Roan Bear and White-Cow-Bull for the first time saw the two long columns of soldiers ride off the ridge into the upper Medicine Tail Coulee. Heartbeats later gunfire erupted, echoing from the coulee itself.

In the time it would take to kindle a pipe, the two young warriors watched the soldiers who led drop from their horses to return fire, then remount.

“
Nahetso!
They will ride straight into our camp if they cross the ford!” Roan Bear shouted at two of his young friends, throwing an arm up to show the pair those soldiers riding down from the hills, coming in their direction.

“If they cross, they will sweep our people away as the warm chinooks eat the winter snows!” Bob-Tail-Horse replied, knowing exactly what needed to be done. “We must guard the ford!”

“You cannot!” old man Mad Wolf hobbled up, crippled with age. “There are too many pony soldiers coming down to the river. We need help. You must go to the Sioux camps and tell them of the other soldiers coming to cross the river. You four cannot do this alone, Nephew! Those pony soldiers will kill you!”

“Perhaps,” Bob-Tail-Horse replied calmly, a look of serenity crossing his face, giving it a strange light. “But only the heavens and the earth last forever, Uncle! A warrior is called upon to fight for his people and to give his life up for the Powers when he is called. Only the earth and sky will last. We who are warriors must die!”

“Hey! Hey!
Naonoatamo! Naonoatamo!
We honor you! We respect your bravery!” his three companions shouted as the four dashed toward the river crossing at Medicine Tail Coulee.

As soon as young Big Face tossed the old muzzle loader up to Bob-Tail-Horse, this oldest of the Cheyenne warriors galloped off toward the crossing. When they broke from the trees, the four were confronted with a flat, grassy bank that ran some twenty yards down to the river. Scattered across this grassy lip lay a jumble of cottonwood deadfall. As the warriors dropped from their ponies, three Crow on horseback appeared on the high bluff across the river, just above the ford itself.

“There are our enemies!” Bob-Tail-Horse exhorted his companions. “Shoot them, my brothers! Rip the wings from those Sparrowhawks!”

With the old muzzle loader he alone lobbed a shot up at the bluff. Before any of the others could fire their weapons, the fluttering tips of soldier flags were seen racing down the bottom of the coulee, while the air filled with that noisy rattle of shod hooves and soldier saddles.

“May you Sparrowhawks die a thousand endless deaths for bringing the soldiers down upon our women and
children!” Roan Bear hurled his curse at the Crow scouts, who watched the soldiers approach the ford.

With the momentary appearance of the soldiers at the mouth of the coulee, the young Cheyenne warrior did a brave and provocative act: After handing his rifle away, Roan Bear turned his back to the three Crow horsemen and pulled his breechclout aside to expose his buttocks. It was a universal way to show what he thought of his enemies—daring the Crows to shoot him while he was disarmed and taunting them by presenting a round, and most inviting, target.

Then he challenged them further, shouting, telling the Crows what Cheyenne women would do to them once they got their hands on such despicable dogs unworthy of the title of warrior. At that moment Roan Bear had no more time to worry himself with the Crows.

The soldier column rattled to a noisy halt at the ford seconds before the lead horseman plunged his big, blazefaced sorrel into the cool waters of the Greasy Grass.

This brave one riding in the front wore buckskin britches and had atop his head a big-brimmed hat that shielded his pink, sunburned face. Right behind the leader rode two others, both carrying small flags that snapped in the warm breeze.

With a jerky wave of his arm, the man on the big stocking-footed sorrel shouted something over his shoulder to his soldiers, urging them into the ford.

A mighty, chilling sound rose from the throats of those white men streaming down out of the coulee as they followed their leader into the river.

As quickly, another noisy challenge sailed across the river from the lips of those brave four who had chosen to sacrifice their lives at the crossing. Their shrill cries filled the air as they stared down the barrels of their weapons and knew only they could stem this cavalry charge. If the soldiers made it across the river and pushed through the undefended village, they would have the Indian forces cut in half. Defeat of the tribes would be assured.

One choice only—to turn the soldiers somehow, to force them back across the river until more warriors could come
up. These four could not allow the pony soldiers to cross the Goat River and gain its western bank.

How pink and hairy these white soldiers are!
The Cow marveled, gazing at the buckskinned cavalry leader splashing into the water, the white-stocking legs of his sorrel spraying a thousand tiny jewels over its rider’s buckskin britches.

“This is a brave one!” Bob-Tail-Horse shouted to The Cow as he took aim on the leader. “I will wear his scalp proudly!”

Tom rode a few lengths behind Autie as the head of the column reached the mouth of the coulee. Custer surged ahead, into the river, splashing wildly and waving his arm for the others to follow.

“The villages are abandoned!” he shouted.

True enough. Or so it seemed to Tom. The lodges and camp ahead showed no activity. The village had fled.

Autie’s two flag-bearers urged their horses down into the cool water, where they had to fight to keep the animals moving. So much water and so much thirst. The horses fought their bits.