Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 Read online

  His heart was still pounding heavily, and he looked at his chest for a moment as if expecting the organ to burst through his skin. He patted his chest once with an open palm, then spread his fingers. He could feel his heart hammering, but he wasn’t afraid. Not now. He was elated, and he let out another high-pitched whoop.

  The Crows never stopped. The momentum of the Lakota was irresistible, and for more than thirty miles, the two groups thundered across the plains. Now and then, the Crows would turn to launch a dozen arrows, fire a few bullets, and shake their fists. The Lakota easily dodged the arrows, fired at such long range, and the marksmanship of the Crows suffered because they were on horseback.

  It was late afternoon before the weary Lakota finally allowed their enemies to retreat in peace. They pulled up and watched the Crows vanish over the next ridge, leaving only a cloud of dust to mark their passage.

  Slow, soaked with sweat and grinning from ear to ear, was swept from his horse by Sitting Bull, who squeezed him in his arms for a moment, then held him at arm’s length. “That was a very foolish thing to do,” he said. Then he smiled. He raised a hand overhead and cut loose with one final triumphant war cry. The other Lakota warriors gathered around father and son. Sitting Bull announced, “Today my son, Jumping Badger, has counted his first coup.” He reached up to pull an eagle feather from his hair and placed it on Slow’s head, tying it in place with strands of his son’s coal-black hair.

  Chapter 8

  Yellowstone River Valley

  1845

  ALL THE WAY HOME, Slow kept thinking about what he had accomplished. That Sitting Bull had scolded him, called him a foolish boy, said he was reckless and that he could have gotten himself wounded or killed, did little to dampen his enthusiasm.

  He knew he should have been more careful, but he also knew that Sitting Bull wasn’t really angry with him. His father was proud, and late at night, he listened while Sitting Bull told the story of his coup, each time refining it, adjusting the details, stopping occasionally to listen to the other warriors add what they had seen. It seemed almost as if Sitting Bull were practicing for something, trying to get the story just right, leaving nothing out but adding nothing that was not true.

  During the day, though, nothing had changed. Slow still had the responsibilities of a boy.

  Sometimes, especially when the others were resting and he had to tend to the horses, or stand guard on a distant hilltop with one of the other young men, he would grow resentful. It didn’t seem right, somehow, that he should still be treated like a stripling. He was a warrior now, and everyone knew it. Or at least everyone in the war party knew it.

  But customs had an imperative of their own, and being the youngest warrior in the war party, he had the duties that went with his status. The weight of hundreds of years of tradition was threatening to squash him flat, squeeze all the joy out of his wonderful achievement. He was almost numb with boredom, his eyes drooping from exhaustion, his joints sore from lack of proper rest.

  He consoled himself with the thought that there would be other war parties, and he would not always be the tail of the buffalo. One day—and he knew it wouldn’t be long—he would be the horns; he would call warriors to follow him instead of sneaking away from camp like a puppy to follow someone else. He would be the one to light the war pipe, the one to raise it to Wakantanka, the first to smoke it. It wasn’t much comfort, but for the time being, it was all he had.

  By the time the camp’s tipis finally came into view, Slow felt as if his arms were made of lead. His whole body seemed too heavy to manage, and he wondered if he would ever again have the strength to climb onto the back of his pony. All he wanted now was to curl up in the buffalo robes and go to sleep. If he slept for a week, that would be all right with him. The entire war party, anxious to see their families, began to push their mounts a little harder now, reaching for one last burst of energy.

  There would be a celebration, because they had been successful. They had killed five of the hated Crows, and they had lost none of their own men. They had a few new horses—just a handful—pitiful profit, it seemed, to show for so long and hard a week. But Slow knew that that was the way it went. Sometimes you came home empty-handed. Sometimes, too, someone didn’t come home at all. Those were always the worst times, when the families sang death songs until you thought your heart would split open like a gourd.

  Slow had heard the terrible wailing of a heartbroken mother more than once in his short life, and it never failed to tear at his gut like sharp claws. At such times, he would bury himself like a baby in the buffalo robes, cover his ears with his palms, and sing to himself—anything to drown out the mournful howl. But it never worked. Always he could hear the sound, even through the flesh and bones covering his ears. Once, not so long ago, the mourners had been his own relatives. His mother’s brother had been killed by Pawnee raiders.

  This time, at least, he knew he would be able to sleep; all the Lakota warriors were returning safely. When the returning war party reached the edge of the village, people gathered around, the wives and mothers standing on tiptoe, their anxious faces bobbing like corks on a sea of buckskin as they searched the mounted warriors for a glimpse of their husbands and sons. The children milled around the women, jumping up to see a father or a brother.

  The old men were more restrained, standing on the outer edge of the circle. They had seen enough of war to know that bad news would find you sooner than you wanted. A man could afford to wait because he couldn’t really hide from it. And after all, it wasn’t as if not knowing changed things for the dead man. He was still dead, and that was permanent. And what was a few minutes when you measured it against forever?

  For Slow, though, the homecoming was more complicated. The headlong charge against the Crows would seem like nothing compared to his mother’s anger. The Lakota never struck their children, but that didn’t mean they didn’t get angry. And Her Holy Door would certainly be angry. She would shriek at him until his ears burned, and then she would turn her back. The cold shoulder would freeze him then, and his teeth would chatter as if he were stranded in a blizzard without a robe to protect him.

  At first, Sitting Bull would try to calm Her Holy Door down, but sooner or later he would fail. Slow knew that, too. And then his father would just stand aside and let the tantrum run its course. He would tell Slow then that it was better than having Her Holy Door mad at both of them. For Sitting Bull, maybe. But for Slow, it would be like having the weight of the world on his own still slender shoulders. And for a time, he would feel like an orphan. For a time, he might even wish he were, because anything would be better than having to endure his mother’s wrath. But sooner or later she would forgive him. She would understand, even through all the scolding, that he had done what he was born and bred to do. And when she had given voice to her own anxiety, changing it first into rage and then into complaint, she would hug him. And the thought of her arms around him was almost enough to steel him for the onslaught. Almost, but not quite, because Her Holy Door could be formidable when she was angry, worse than any Crow.

  The warriors, as was their custom, started to circle the camp, boasting of their exploits, and the women and children were forced to back away to make room for the horses. Slow, watching from the back of his gray, realized that Sitting Bull had not joined the victory celebration. Instead, he dismounted and lifted Slow from his pony. Slow was sure he was in for it now. Sitting Bull dragged him toward his lodge and hauled him inside. Her Holy Door tried to come in, but Sitting Bull shouted for her to stay outside.

  Slow began to stammer that he was sorry, but Sitting Bull waved off the explanation, sweeping him up in a bear hug, nearly crushing his lungs in the process. Then he moved into the shadows at the edge of the tipi and reappeared with a small pot. Without a word, he began to daub black paint all over Slow, starting at his forehead and working his way down until the boy was covered from head to foot in the black paint of victory.

  Still saying nothing,
Sitting Bull dragged Slow back into the open. Once more lifting the boy in his arms, he clapped him down on the back of a fine bay stallion, Sitting Bull’s favorite horse. “He’s yours now, son,” Sitting Bull said, his voice shaking a bit as he stepped back to examine the young warrior on his new warhorse.

  Then, in a loud voice, Sitting Bull called out to the camp at large. The strong voice seemed to echo from the hills behind the camp, and everyone stopped what they were doing and began to move toward Sitting Bull’s tipi. Taking the bay by the bridle, Sitting Bull moved toward the center of the camp.

  When he reached the middle of the circle of tipis, he raised his voice again. “My son has struck his first enemy!” he announced. “He is no longer to be called Jumping Badger or Slow. Instead, I give him the name Tatanka lyotanka. And from this day forward I will be known as Jumping Bull.”

  Slow gasped. His father had given up his own name, surrendering it to his son. He was now to be known as Sitting Bull. The boy remembered the story of how his father had come by the name, the visit from the big medicine buffalo, and he felt a lump in his throat. This was no ordinary name. This name was special. Not only had it been his father’s, but it had come from Wakantanka. It would be a burden as well as an honor to carry such a name. It meant that great things were expected of him … perhaps even greater things than those of which he dreamed. And it meant, too, that things would change for his father. Jumping Bull had been the second name given by the medicine buffalo, representing the second stage of life, and he wondered for a moment whether it meant that his father was moving through some sort of invisible barrier and, if so, whether he had been the cause of it.

  His father was not finished yet. He handed the newly christened Sitting Bull a brand-new lance, one that had never been into battle, one that he had fashioned with his own hands. The bright iron blade glittered like a shooting star as it was waved overhead, and when his father finally placed it in his hands, he traced the perfect symmetry of the polished wood with trembling fingers.

  Already the warriors were shouting out, telling the rest of the village about his dash against the Crows, how he had struck the enemy with his coup stick, and how he had shown the nerve of a great warrior.

  The young Sitting Bull felt his head swimming. The women were crowding in around him now, singing of his triumph, their shrill wailing sending chills down his spine. He spotted Blue Eagle and Little Calf, two of his closest friends, pressing in among the women, trying to get to the front of the circle surrounding him now. The two boys stood there slack-jawed, their eyes big as the full moon. They were in awe of him now, stunned into immobility by the news. Later, they would remind each other that they had known him when, but for the moment, all they could do was gape.

  Jumping Bull had slipped away, but Sitting Bull had not noticed. Now his father was back, once more pushing through the crowd and calling attention to another gift. When he reached the side of the big bay, he handed the gift to Sitting Bull without a word.

  Sitting Bull stared at it, turning it this way and that to let the light catch the brilliant colors. It was a shield, brand-new, like the lance never used in battle. Like all Lakota shields, it was a circle of wood covered with tough hide. At the four cardinal points, a tuft of eagle feathers fluttered in the hot breeze, one each representing North, East, South, and West. The center of the circle contained an image that had come to his father in a vision. Some said it was a bird, perhaps an eagle, while others said it was a man. Still others argued that it was both—a birdman. But Sitting Bull knew that it had been painted on the thick buffalo hide by a holy man, and that it was powerful medicine. The bright red, dark blue, and deep green paints seemed to glow with an inner fire as they reflected sunlight back into the sky.

  Raising the shield high overhead, Sitting Bull uttered a war cry, and unlike the dry squawk of a few days before, this time his voice was full and rich—not as powerful as his father’s, but no longer the reedy squeak of a boy. It was a man’s voice, and a man’s war cry. He nudged the bay into a walk and circled the camp, waving to friends, and reveling in the friendly slaps of the warriors. This would be a day he would never forget.

  When he had completed his circuit of the village, he dismounted in front of Jumping Bull and solemnly embraced him, as if meeting him for the first time. He heard the catch in his father’s voice and patted his shoulder. As he started to back away, he caught sight of his mother, standing a few feet behind Jumping Bull. Her face seemed composed of warring halves, one emotion after another passing across her features. Pride was there, certainly, but fear, too. She knew what this day meant, knew what might happen to him. She had lost him, now. The ghostly sorrow of some future day when he might not come home seemed to suffuse her features for a moment, until her joy at his victory gained control. She gave him a smile, at first pale and weak, just a flicker. But when he stepped around Jumping Bull and wrapped her in his arms, she beamed with pleasure.

  He was no longer her little boy, but had become what she had always known he could be, and hoped he would be—a proud Lakota warrior. And there was no point in trying to pretend that it could be otherwise. She lay her head on his shoulder and stroked his back, her sturdy fingers digging into the flesh along his spine. Her breath was hot and came in short gasps then she backed away to hold him at arms length, tears streaking her dark skin. She sniffed once, chewed her lower lip, then slowly shook her head up and down.

  She approved, he knew that. But it seemed that she had not until that very moment. “There is a lot to do,” she said. “There will be a victory celebration, and you will be at its center, son. I’d better get ready.” She nodded once, as if the suggestion had come from him, then turned away. Only then did she reach up to wipe away the dampness from her cheeks. A moment later, she vanished into the milling throng, and Sitting Bull turned once more to the admiring well-wishers.

  His first victory dance, he thought—that was something to look forward to. He had seen them before, of course, but since he had never struck an enemy in battle, he had not been allowed to participate with the warriors. Tonight, for the first time, he would join them as they danced and told the whole village of his accomplishment. His legs felt like jelly, and he wondered whether they would hold him.

  But the warriors swept him away, and he forgot about his concern in the frenzy of the moment.

  Chapter 9

  Musselshell River

  1846

  SLOW HAD NO TROUBLE getting used to his new name. Being called Sitting Bull, the name of his father, was a great honor. This was not just because his father was a great warrior and a holy man, but because the buffalo itself was so important to the Lakota, and it meant that he would one day be important, too, if he was true to the spirit of the buffalo and of the Lakota traditions.

  The upright eagle feather he wore in his hair each day reminded him that he had garnered his first coup. The feather’s upright position reminded him, and everyone who saw him, that not only had he struck the enemy, he had struck the enemy first.

  Only the first four strikes earned a warrior a coup, and each was symbolized by the angle of the feather. Upright meant first coup, while the other three were represented by the feather’s direction and deviation from the vertical. He knew that there would be more coups and more eagle feathers to come, but the first one is always special. It was a watershed in a warrior’s life, a kind of transition from boy to man that every Lakota male dreamed of from the moment he was old enough to understand the way his people lived.

  The newly named Sitting Bull saw his coup feather every time he bent over a stream to drink, every time he rode along the edge of the river and saw his reflection in the shimmering surface of the current. It was a constant reminder, not just of what he had done, but of what was expected of him. He was a warrior now, and that meant that great responsibilities lay squarely on his shoulders.

  It was all well and good to play a boy’s game of hoop and javelin, shoot blunt arrows at birds, run footraces with t
he other boys—those had only been preparation, games intended to teach him what he needed to know to be a warrior. Now that it had come to pass, he was able to look back at those things of his youth and see how much more they meant than he had realized. Now his life, and the lives of his family and friends, might be at stake every time he drew a bow. His skill with the lance might bring down a buffalo when his family was hungry, or save the life of a friend on the warpath against the Crows or the Hohe. And his great speed might save his own skin one day if his horse were killed or wounded in battle. Or it might enable him to come to the aid of a beleaguered or wounded friend.

  Jumping Bull had tried to explain these things to him ever since he had been old enough to listen.

  He had thought he understood, but he had only been fooling himself. Now, though, it had all become clear. It seemed to him that for years he had been looking into a muddy pool, where things moved, barely seen, through the murky water, a glimpse here and a hint there, and because these hints and glimpses were all he saw, he had thought they were all there was to be seen. But he had been patient, as his father had counseled him. He had waited, and now the mud had settled, the water was pure as crystal, and he saw everything so much more clearly.

  Jumping Bull understood that his son had changed, had reached an important point in his life. He understood that it was tempting for Sitting Bull to think that he was finished growing, finished learning. The boy had always been inquisitive, and he had treasured those walks in the hills, those long hours watching the birds and the rabbits and the buffalo. He was proud of Sitting Bull, but not so proud that he shared the boy’s temptation to think that growing and learning were finished.