Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 Read online

  Sitting now in the shadows, watching the broad back of Good-Voiced Elk, Slow thought about approaching the warrior, asking if he could go along on the war party. But he knew what Good-Voiced Elk would do. He would tell Slow to ask his father, and Slow already knew what Sitting Bull would say.

  He could hear his mother, too, pleading with Sitting Bull not to take their son on so dangerous a mission. Slow’s sisters, Good Feather and Twin Woman, would chime in too. No, if he were going to get the opportunity to count his first coup, he would have to keep his intentions to himself. If he rode out to join the war party, they would not send him back. So he would have to find out where they planned to rendezvous and make his own preparations in secret.

  If he kept his ears open, he would hear Sitting Bull discuss the war party. He wouldn’t be able to ask questions, because his father would see right through him. He would just sit quietly, listening for the tiniest clue.

  The next day the camp would hum with news of the impending raid. There would be no celebration, because everyone in the village knew only too well that there might be nothing to celebrate. More than one war party Slow could remember had returned home with dead and wounded draped over their ponies. The village had been filled with wailing, the death song filling the air day and night as the dead were mourned and laid to rest on their burial scaffolds. He could still see the relatives, wearing old clothes, sometimes with their faces painted or smeared with mud to symbolize their loss.

  But he listened and missed no opportunity to eavesdrop on Good-Voiced Elk, Short Bull, and the others. It was hard to hide his excitement, especially when Good-Voiced Elk had come to Sitting Bull’s tipi to ask him to join the war party. Sitting Bull had said nothing, promising only that he would let Good-Voiced Elk know his decision as soon as he had made it. Sitting Bull’s sharp glance at Slow had brought a knowing nod from Good-Voiced Elk, and he had said no more.

  By sunset the next day, Slow knew all he needed to know. He made his own preparations, all the while feeling a little foolish. He had a bow, but his arrows were a boy’s arrows, not those of a man. When they hunted, his father gave him hunting arrows, but they were inappropriate for Crows or Assiniboin. And he could not ask his father for war arrows. He would have to hope that Wakantanka would provide.

  The night before the war party left, Slow could barely sleep. He kept tossing on his buffalo robes. Every sound drifting through the village took on demonic shape in the darkness. The hoot of an owl came from a Crow throat; the muffled thud of pony hooves outside the tipi was the first hint of an Assiniboin war party preparing to thunder down on the sleeping camp.

  Every noise brought his hand to his bow, which was tucked under the edge of his sleeping robes.

  His fingers would curl around the polished ash, and he could feel the cold sweat of his palms making the smooth wood slippery to the touch. Sometimes he would get to his feet, bow in hand, and tiptoe toward the entrance. All around him he could hear the breathing of his sleeping family, the resonant snore of his father, the sleeping sighs of his sisters, the whisper of his mother’s breath.

  With his hand on the tipi flap, he would suddenly feel silly and back away, lying down again, trying to forget what he was about to do. By tomorrow night, he thought, or the next night, all of this would be no more than an amusing story, one he would someday tell around a campfire, or to his own son, trying to make him understand why he was too young for the warpath. But that was little comfort now. At the moment, his muscles twitched like snakes beneath his skin, his throat was dry, and every nerve tingled.

  By morning he was exhausted, but he forced himself to get up and go to the river for a bath. It was still gray when he stepped into the water. He could see the village horses grazing on the hillside, dark shadows in the dim light. He went out into the cold current, watching the bustle of activity beginning. He could tell which warriors were going with the war party, as one by one they came out of their tipis, made their ponies ready, gathered their weapons, and rode off.

  As soon as he saw Sitting Bull leave, Slow waded out of the river and sprinted to his tipi. He gathered his bow and the war paint he planned to wear and, doing his best not to attract attention to himself, left the lodge and climbed onto the back of his gray pony. When he reached the rendezvous point, the warriors had assembled. Some were already streaked with war paint, while others stood by their mounts, decorating the ponies with bold splashes of brilliant color and daubing their own faces with bands of red and yellow and blue.

  One of the warriors spotted Slow and tapped Sitting Bull on the shoulder. Slow’s father turned around. His face, already painted, was barely recognizable behind the streaks of bright color. His eyes widened when he saw Slow, and he backed up a step, as if the boy were a frightening apparition. “What are you doing here?” he asked when he had regained his composure.

  “I am going on the war party.”

  Sitting Bill shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You aren’t old enough yet.”

  “If I wait for you to tell me I am old enough, I will never be old enough. I have already killed buffalo. I know how to hunt, and I know how to shoot accurately with the bow and with the rifle.”

  “That’s not the point … your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

  Slow shook his head. “It is not up to my mother. And anyway, she would too forgive you. She knows that she can’t keep me in the tipi forever. I have left the cradleboard behind. I don’t want to be treated like a baby anymore.”

  “But you have no experience.”

  “How am I supposed to get experience if I always stay at home?”

  Sitting Bull knew the boy was right, but he still didn’t want to agree. He held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Let me think about this.” He moved away, Good-Voiced Elk following him.

  Slow watched the two men conferring. The other warriors were all grinning at him, some pointing then whispering jokes and laughing, but Slow didn’t take offense. He knew what they were thinking, and he knew that someday, when he was like them and some fresh-faced boy wanted to come along, he would have the same reaction. He would laugh and he would tease. But he knew, too, that in the end he would accept the newcomer, because there was no other way. He only hoped Sitting Bull saw things the same way.

  It didn’t take long for him to find out. Sitting Bull moved toward him, took the bow from his hand, and emptied the quiver of blunt-tipped arrows onto the grass. “These will not do for making war,” he said.

  Then he walked back to his mount and took a coup stick, its bright beadwork glittering as he twirled it once and looked along its length to make sure it was straight. Satisfied, he handed it to the boy.

  Slow took the coup stick, trying to conceal his delight. The warriors muttered their approval as he hefted the coup stick high overhead. “It is a good day to die,” he said.

  “Not yet,” Sitting Bull said. “You have to put on your war paint. And hurry, because it is already late.”

  Chapter 7

  Yellowstone River Valley

  1845

  A WAR PARTY WAS NOT QUITE as exciting as Slow had thought. They had been riding for two days already, and so far there had not been a single trace of Crows. And he had all the dirty work to do. At night, he had to tend to the horses. During the day, he rode near the rear of the line, as befitted his status as the youngest. He was beginning to wonder whether it might not have been better to have waited for Sitting Bull to tell him when the time was right. But when he thought about it, he realized that even then, he would have been assigned the same chores. Better to get it over with now, he decided. Some things just couldn’t be avoided.

  The warriors teased him constantly. They seemed to have a bottomless bag of tricks to play on him, and they were adept enough in their practical joking that he even fell for the same trick more than once. They never seemed to tire of calling out that the Crows were coming, and every single time Slow would lash his gray pony, clapping his heels against it
s sides to get it moving, only to hear the explosion of laughter all around him. The warriors knew he was eager, and they were making the most of it.

  But it was not malicious, and Slow knew that he would have to bear it with good grace if he expected to be taken on another war party anytime soon. He had known he would have to work hard, but he had not expected to be bored. When they camped for the night at the end of the second day’s ride, Slow tended the horses then moved to the campfire to sit next to Sitting Bull.

  His father was a great warrior, and it made Slow proud to sit beside him and the other warriors, men whose names were known not just among the Hunkpapa, but among all the Lakota—the Oglala and the Miniconjou, the Sans Arcs and the Brule, the Two Kettles and the Blackfeet Sioux—all knew of Sitting Bull, celebrated not just for his bravery, but for his accomplishments as a holy man and a healer, as well. And now, sitting by his side, the black night pressing in from every direction, the sounds of the vast, empty plains drifting toward them on the night breeze, father and son each realized that their relationship was changing, changing in some profound way that each intuitively understood, changing in a way that could never be reversed.

  Slow was truly growing up. He was no longer a boy, and not quite yet a man, but that would change tomorrow, or the day after, and both of them knew it. Slow was eager, but Sitting Bull felt resigned, almost sad. He had spent his life trying to keep Slow safe, but soon—sooner than he wanted to admit—it would no longer be up to him. Slow would have to fend for himself, and that would be even more difficult than it had been twenty winters before, when Sitting Bull had himself been just a boy.

  Sitting Bull draped an arm around Slow’s shoulders. “So, what do you think?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  Sitting Bull shrugged his shoulders. “This. Being on the warpath …”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Is it what you thought it would be?”

  Slow paused a moment to think, then shook his head. “No. It’s boring. I thought it would be different. I thought it would be exciting.”

  Sitting Bull laughed. “If we find the Crows we are looking for, it will not be boring. That much I can tell you.”

  “When will we find them?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if we will find them. Sometimes we ride for days, and if it weren’t for our own reflections in the water, we would see no one at all. Sometimes we find more than we were looking for. Those are the worst times, the times when we lose a friend or a relative.”

  “The Crows are nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Yes, they are. All enemies are to be feared. A man who does not fear his enemy is a fool. The warrior does what he has to do even though he is afraid.”

  “Still, I am not afraid.”

  “That is good. Right now, there is nothing to be afraid of. Perhaps tomorrow it will be different.”

  “Do you think we will find the Crows tomorrow?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What if we don’t?”

  “Then we will find them the next day … or the day after that.”

  “I hope so.”

  “The horses are all taken care of?” Sitting Bull asked.

  Slow nodded. “Yes. But tonight I don’t have to stand guard. It is Small Eagle’s turn.”

  “Maybe you should get some sleep, son. Tomorrow will be a long day, just like today and yesterday. Every day is the same on the warpath. And if we do find the Crows, you will need your rest.”

  Slow was reluctant. He wanted to stay by Sitting Bull’s side, but he knew his father was right. He was not used to the rigors of the warpath. He was accustomed to sleeping when he was tired and rising when he felt like it. The warpath was a special place, and one had to think of others. If he was tired, he might be careless, and if he was careless, he might get someone hurt, maybe even killed, and he did not want that on his conscience.

  He walked away from the fire and lay down on the ground. He had his brand-new coup stick by his side, and he curled his fingers around the leather grip. It was beginning to look like the only Crows he would see would be in his dreams, and he might as well go armed.

  He woke up later, the fire long since out. He thought he had heard a noise, but as he lay there, straining his ears, he began to think he had dreamed it. Trying to keep his eyes open was more than he could bear, and a few minutes later, he was asleep again.

  Sitting Bull woke him early, shaking him by the shoulder. He sat up slowly, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and reached for the dried buffalo meat Sitting Bull proferred. He chewed the meat slowly, aware of his aching muscles but trying his best to ignore them.

  The sun was already warm on his skin, and as he looked around the camp, he realized that he was the last one to awaken. He felt embarrassed, but Sitting Bull didn’t mention it. No sooner had he swallowed the last of the dried meat than Sitting Bull called to him to mount his pony. It was time to move on.

  The scouts were already out, and the war party rode along slowly, letting their horses reserve their energy. If they encountered Crows, they would need all of it and more. So far from home, possibly outnumbered, perhaps heavily, they would have to be prepared to run for their lives. And if they found Crows and there were not too many, then the ponies would need their strength for the chase and the ensuing battle. It was a delicate balance, and there was always the chance that the difference between life and death would depend on the sturdy ponies beneath them.

  The sun was almost overhead when the scouts appeared on a ridge ahead. Good-Voiced Elk rode out to meet them, and the rest of the war party waited anxiously to find out what he had learned. When he returned, he told the warriors that there was a Crow war party ahead, nearly forty strong. Two to one was not such bad odds, and it was decided to move ahead and set a trap for them.

  On the far side of the hill, there was a long, narrow valley. A creek wound its way through the bottom, and it was likely the Crows would be looking to water their ponies. The Lakota would arrange themselves along the ridge on one side of the valley, and when the Crows dismounted, they would charge.

  It was as good a plan as any, and Slow felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. He hoped his medicine was strong, and that all would go well. The ridge was studded with clumps of brush, and the Lakota warriors broke up into small groups, using the brush for cover so they would not have to dismount. They wanted to be ready to charge at a moment’s notice.

  The gray pony sensed Slow’s nervousness and kept tossing its stiff mane and pawing the ground with its hooves. The boy leaned forward to pat it on the neck and whisper in its ear, trying to calm it. He kept one eye on the mouth of the valley, holding his breath and waiting for his first glimpse of the enemy.

  It wasn’t long before the first Crow appeared, moving cautiously, swiveling his head to examine the ridge, looking for any hint of trouble. Slow licked his lips and took a deep breath. For a moment, he could swear the Crow was looking right at him. It looked almost as if the Crow’s eyes were staring right through him.

  But the enemy warrior soon shifted his gaze. When he was satisfied there was no one about, he turned and called over his shoulder, then nudged his horse toward some cottonwoods along the creek. Several more Crows soon appeared, followed by another bunch, and finally the entire Crow war party had made its entrance.

  Slow was watching Sitting Bull, waiting for some sign that it was time to move, but it didn’t come. Sitting Bull, like the other warriors, was waiting for Good-Voiced Elk to make the decision. It was his war party, and even though Lakota warriors fought as individuals, it was just common courtesy to let the leader give the signal.

  “Hurry up,” Slow whispered. The gray was getting more skittish by the moment, and Slow himself was ready to burst. Finally, when he could stand it no more, he kicked the gray and charged into the open, shouting at the top of his lungs. He had jumped the gun, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

  Far below, the Crows hea
rd his solitary shriek. They watched for several seconds. But the sudden ripple of war cries along the ridge, followed by the explosive appearance of nearly two dozen Lakota warriors, galvanized them.

  The Crows scattered, some sprinting back the way they had come, some standing their ground as the Lakota charged downhill. Slow’s gray was fast, and its burden was light, so he was far out in front. He turned once to see where the others were, realized that they were far behind him, but didn’t pull up. Instead, he urged the gray to go even faster. Again he shouted, the war cry making his throat raw. It sounded shrill and tiny to his own ears, and for a second he wondered whether the Crows would laugh at him.

  He brandished his coup stick overhead, kicking the gray pony again and again, using a leather quirt to wring every last bit of speed from the charging pony. One Crow warrior dismounted. He was armed with a bow, and Slow saw him notch an arrow as he moved away from his mount. Slow closed in on him so fast that he never had time to aim. Reaching out with the coup stick, Slow rapped the Crow on the shoulder and shouted, “This one is mine! I have struck the enemy!” The gray slammed into the dismounted warrior, knocking him backward as the arrow sailed harmlessly away. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion now. The hum of the bowstring seemed to last forever. The whoosh of air from the Crow’s lungs sounded like floodwater at spring thaw.

  Slow turned to look over his shoulder and saw other Lakota closing in on the prostrate Crow. The enemy warrior was trying to get to his feet, but three Lakota leaped from their horses in unison, swarmed over the Crow, and battered him senseless with war clubs.

  The howling of the Lakota filled the valley, and the rest of the Crows turned their horses and started to run as the Lakota thundered after them. Here and there, the sharp crack of an old rifle punctuated the incessant war cries of the attackers, and clouds of gray-white smoke from the gunpowder drifted just above the tall grass. As Slow turned his pony to follow, he caught its pungent scent in his flared nostrils.