“I am the brave called by that name you just spoke. Why does a white man have it on his lips? Who sent you riding into our hunting grounds?”
Touch the Sky was acutely aware that he was speaking English again to this white stranger. The words had come slowly to memory, felt awkward in his mouth. Worse, he was aware of his fellow Cheyennes, aware of the new glint of suspicion and mistrust in their eyes. This Touch the Sky, their looks told one another, see how easily he moves through our enemy’s world? Hear the words he speaks now, the secret code of those who would exterminate the red man?
But Touch the Sky was careful not to repeat his own name in front of the paleface stranger. Indians believed their names lost their power if spoken by Indians before whites. However, before the stranger could answer, Swift Canoe of the Wolverine Clan spoke out in Cheyenne. He was Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s fawning ally. He had been staring hard at the new arrival, his eyes squinting in tight scrutiny.
“Brothers! Have ears for my words. I swear by the sun and the earth I live on! This hair face has grown the fur on his snout long to fool us. But this is the same little soldier chief that this one”—here he shot a contemptuous stare at Touch the Sky—“met with secretly. They plotted together against our people!”
“Buck, you do not have truth firmly by the tail,” Touch the Sky said. “Just as all Indians look alike to the Yellow Eyes, all Yellow Eyes look alike to the red man. I do not know this stranger.”
“He knows your name, buck!” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was clearly savoring this new trouble for Touch the Sky. “Is he a great ‘shaman,’ too, that he can pluck our names from thin air? Let him pluck mine, then, or my cousin’s. No, White Man Runs Him! This is one of your masters.”
“Yes! It is the same soldier,” Swift Canoe insisted again. He turned to River of Winds, the brave who had accompanied him on the spying mission to the paleface village known as Bighorn Falls. Again he avoided speaking names.
“You, brother! Do I speak straight-arrow? Is this the Bluecoat pony soldier we spied on?”
Every Cheyenne present stared at River of Winds, waiting expectantly. He was one of the most respected braves in Chief Gray Thunder’s tribe. He was known for speaking words which could be placed in one’s sash.
River of Winds stared a long time, uncertainty reflected in his eyes. Throughout the scrutiny, the stranger gazed back with a bold but not disrespectful frankness—neither cowering nor playing the big paleface. Though they said nothing, the Cheyennes respected him for this. For a young white man who still looked green behind the ears, he seemed oddly at ease around Indians.
“Truly, I think it is the same man,” River of Winds finally replied. “But as it has just been said, and rightly, all Mah-ish-ta-schee-da look alike.”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling and Black Elk exchanged a glance, frowning.
“River of Winds,” Black Elk said, “I have never known you to hide in your tipi when your brothers were on the war path. And if there is a better scout in the camp, Black Elk does not know his name or clan! But buck, you have too much of the cautious woman in you when it comes time to enforce the Cheyenne law-ways.”
“All of you, hold your tongues a moment,” Touch the Sky said, “and perhaps we can learn something useful.”
Again he switched to English. “How do you know my name?”
“From my brother Tom,” the paleface replied. “My name is Caleb Riley.”
Despite the Indian way of holding the face impassive, Touch the Sky felt a smile briefly tug at his lips at mention of his cavalry friend Tom Riley.
“Then welcome, Caleb Riley,” Touch the Sky said. “That explains the resemblance. I owe your brother my life. And he helped me rescue a group of our women and children from Kiowas and Comanches.”
For that alone, Touch the Sky knew, he was eternally indebted to Tom Riley. But one of those prisoners had been Honey Eater, which made the debt doubly pressing. The light had come back into his day when she was saved.
“But the rest in my tribe, they don’t understand. It’s all one enemy to them. Why did you ride here?”
Caleb Riley dipped one hand into a saddlebag, then removed a lone, flint-tipped Cheyenne arrow. A note had been wrapped tight around it and sealed with wax—the imprint bore the crossed sabers of the 3rd Cavalry, Tom’s regiment.
Even before he unwrapped the note, Touch the Sky knew why Tom had wrapped it around an arrow. It was his way of attesting that his brother was straight-arrow through and through.
The other Cheyennes stared curiously at the arrow. Touch the Sky was again aware of their hostility as they saw him unwrapping this talking paper which might very well spell new trouble for the Shaiyena nation.
Touch the Sky,
The ugly young cuss who just handed you this letter is my little brother Caleb, though you can see he ain’t so little no more. He’s still pretty green to the West, but I’ll tell you this, he’s solid bedrock.
He ain’t got a mean bone in his body, and thanks to me, he’s learned from the get-go to accept every man out here for what he is, red or white. In fact, he’s already got himself a “reg’lar night woman” a new Crow wife, and she’s a beauty, wait till you meet her.
But I’m worried, Touch the Sky. He’s a good lad, reckless and he miscalculates the danger out here. I’ve taught him some Indian customs and sign talk. But he’s going to need more help than that. He’s going to need your help. Here’s the long and short of it. Caleb and some partners from back East have all thrown in together on a mining company. They’ve proved up government land on the open stretch in the Sans Arc Mountains, right on the western boundary of the Cheyenne territory. They hit a rich vein right off and were able to pack the ore out to Laramie by a railroad spur line connecting with the Great Northern-Platte River Line.
Now the whole operation is shut down. The safe route through Solomon’s Gorge has been completely blocked by a massive rockslide. Unless they can build another spur line, and mighty damn quick, Caleb and his pards are going to have to fold up the tents and go home. It ain’t just their money that’s going down a rat hole—there’s hundreds of investors behind them. Caleb won’t pay this debt off if he lives to be a hundred, the fool.
Here’s the rough part. That spur line down out of the Sans Arc Mountains is going to have to cross part of the Cheyenne territory. I’m asking you a mighty big favor. Will you serve as negotiator for Caleb, take his offer of a peace price to your headmen? I’ve talked to him about it, and Caleb is determined to try and buy a private treaty with your tribe. Even more, he’s going to need a pathfinder to sight the line through the mountains for them. I told him to get you, if he can. I know it’s asking a lot. But Caleb is the only close kin I got.
Touch the Sky looked up from the letter when he finished, his face troubled. For a moment he forgot about his brother warriors watching him closely.
This was an awkward thing. Touch the Sky knew his position in the tribe was already precarious enough. He would not help it by offering to parley between the tribe and their white enemies. Tom Riley had no way of knowing how things stood between Touch the Sky and his people.
And yet—how could he not help this foolish, ambitious young white man? His brother had risked death and long, hard imprisonment to help the Cheyenne people. Now it was time for turnabout, and Touch the Sky knew he had to do his best.
Now, seeing the intense curiosity in Little Horse’s eyes, he translated the letter to the rest.
Little Horse nodded. “Now I understand,” he said to the others. “This is not the Bluecoat Tom Riley. I see that now. This paleface is younger, bigger.”
“So you say,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said. “We must take your word for it since we cannot read the talking paper. Perhaps it really says to kill us in our sleep and collect a fat reward for our scalps.”
Since Caleb’s arrival, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had been staring covetously at the big roan stallion. Its coat was brilliant from a steady diet of oats and com, but the animal was not at all soft. Each muscle stood out like ropes stretched tight under canvas.
Touch the Sky watched his enemy’s furtive eyes cut to the Colt rifle protruding from its scabbard. Formerly, Touch the Sky would have waited for Black Elk, their official war leader, to make a decision about this thing. But now, since openly challenging Black Elk’s authority after he beat Honey Eater and cut off her braid to shame her, Touch the Sky had begun making decisions on his own.
“Wolf Who Hunts Smiling speaks as if he has been visiting the Peyote Soldiers,” he said. “And now I see his thoughts run to killing our visitor and stealing his horse. I will say this thing now, and all had better listen if they value the breath in their lungs.
“This man rides into our country under a truce flag. He carries a Cheyenne arrow as a peace gesture. He has not fired on our people nor killed our buffalo nor hurt our land. So place my words next to your heart. He has asked to address our headmen, and so he shall. Any brave who harms this paleface will answer to me. Blood will beget blood, count upon it.”
“My lance goes up beside Touch the Sky’s in this thing,” Little Horse said. “If you would send Touch the Sky under, plan to kill two and hope you are a better man than both of us!”
“The dogs rise on their hind legs to defend their master,” Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said.
Touch the Sky whirled on him. His eyes narrowed to slits, his mouth formed a grim, determined line. Every brave could feel the menace that marked the air around them. His face had looked just this way when he sailed over the breastworks on horseback and counted first coup at the critical Tongue River Battle against white land-grabbers.
“You,” he said, his voice going dangerously low. “You fight well with your mouth. Now have done with words and come at me, I am for you!”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling chafed. But he was not foolish enough to make his move now, when Touch the Sky had blood filming his eyes.
“All in good time,” he said, turning away with hatred smoldering in his eyes.
“As you say, Panther Clan. All in good time. Now we ride back to camp and turn this matter over to the council.”
~*~
In fact, things went easier than Touch the Sky expected, thanks to a visiting Sioux sub chief named Conquering Bear who was invited to attend the council.
Caleb first returned to his base camp in the Sans Arc Mountains, agreeing to arrive at the Cheyenne’s summer camp in three sleeps. Normally, only warriors attended the gathering of the Council of Forty. But Caleb’s Crow Indian wife Woman Dress was permitted to attend briefly, as visiting women often were. As the elders reasoned, it did not matter if they knew tribe business since they could not gossip about the clan circles—the main reason Cheyenne women were barred from councils.
If any Plains tribe could match the Cheyenne people for beauty, it was commonly acknowledged to be the Crow tribe. Their women were famous for their clear skin, almond-shaped eyes, and thick, brilliant hair worn down below their buttocks. Woman Dress impressed the entire tribe with her beauty.
Now Touch the Sky watched her sitting beside Caleb with her eyes modestly downcast. Though the Crows were usually their enemies, many of the Cheyennes were again impressed that this white man loved any red woman enough to marry her. It was a strange thing, they agreed, like a fox mating with a wolf. But like many Indians, they were quick to admire individual white men who differed from their ironclad notions about Yellow Eyes.
Tom Riley’s teachings were evident again when Caleb correctly pointed the long-stemmed ornamental pipe to the four directions before smoking it and passing it on.
The last braves had smoked the common pipe, and Gray Thunder crossed his arms in the signal for silence.
“Brothers! You know why we are here. This bearded stranger wishes to offer us a peace price if we let the Iron Horse gallop over our land. You also know that Conquering Bear of the Teton Sioux is visiting our village.
“But there is a thing you do not know. Something Conquering Bear spoke to me earlier, when he first saw this sun beard ride into our camp. Now Conquering Bear will speak those words again.”
The sub chief was popular with Gray Thunder’s Cheyennes. The Teton Sioux were feared by every tribe in the West, Bluecoats included. Yet, they remained steadfastly loyal to their close Cheyenne cousins. Since neither tribe had the heart to truly banish its people, it was understood that outcasts from either tribe would be cared for by the other. That way, they would always be close to the life and news of their former camps.
Conquering Bear spoke in the easy, fluid mixture of Cheyenne and Sioux which was understood by both tribes.
“Shaiyena brothers, hear me well! By now you have heard how a party of braves from my village were trapped in Roaring Horse Canyon by those bloodthirsty white vigilantes who call themselves the Territorial Militia.”
Many nodded and murmured. The story had stirred excitement, and much disbelief, throughout camp. The braves, only six of them, had been caught flush between two large groups of vigilantes, each closing in. Suddenly, gunshots from the rimrock, a furious volley, had sent the whites scattering in panic. The Sioux assumed that Cheyenne allies had come to their rescue, until they sent a scout up into the rimrock to thank them—and discovered a bearded white man and several companions. They had laid down that withering fire to save the Sioux!
“Believe this tale,” Conquering Bear said now, “because I was that scout who searched the rocks. And this young paleface was one of those who saved our braves.”
Touch the Sky was heartened by the response to this news. Even Black Elk, whose crudely sewn ear made his fierceness permanent, registered a glance of surprised respect at this new word. But it was only momentary—and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, Swift Canoe, and many in the Bull Whip soldier troop never lost their hateful scowls.
Touch the Sky sensed that now was the time to close for the victory.
“Fathers! Brothers! Hear these words also, for they are welcome words. This white man, who loves justice enough to fight for the red man against his own white clan, does not expect to cross our land for the price of his good will. He reminds Gray Thunder and the Headmen of an ancient paleface proverb: A rising tide lifts all the boats. If the white man profits from the yellow-streaked rocks, so too must the red man. They are prepared to pay generously.”
“How generously?” Gray Thunder said immediately. Far off, in the land of the British Queen, fashions were changing—beaver hats were no longer valuable items. White men at the trading post now paid little for the beaver plews the Indians brought in. The tribe was critically short on staples such as cloth and black powder.
Touch the Sky translated, Caleb answered, and the tall young brave smiled inwardly: It was a good offer. Tom had also taught Caleb that Indians don’t bargain like Mexicans do. You start with your best offer, and they take it or leave it.
“The peace price will come in two payments,” Touch the Sky explained to the lodge filled with warriors. “One wagonload of goods as soon as the treaty is agreed upon. Another when the spur line is completed. New blankets for all in the tribe, black powder, calico cloth, lead and bullet molds, flour, bacon, salt and sugar. Plenty for all in the tribe.”
As he had thought, Touch the Sky saw that this offer impressed most of the Councilors. Gray Thunder, too, clearly liked it. But before the vote could be taken, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling spoke up.
“Fathers and brothers, hear me well! True it is, my coup feathers have been stripped from me. But I call no warrior in this tribe my better, and I will be heard!”
His cunning black eyes flashed hatred at Touch the Sky and Caleb. “Can you not see the trap closing on us? Be wary of any wind that blows too much good. Why can this Bluecoat imposter afford to be so generous? Only think on this thing. He is backed by the entire white nation as they permanently steal our land from us. This ‘temporary’ path for their iron horse, soon white soldier towns will go up. And our tipis will supply their camp fires!”
“I have ears for this!” Black Elk said, and several of his Bull Whip brothers voiced assent, as did many of Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s younger followers.
But the Headmen were older braves, most of them practical. The women and children were the first responsibility of the tribe, not power struggles between the younger bucks. Even more important: This young white man, though odd, did not seem to have the stink about him. Cheyenne dogs had refused to bark at him, the little children had flocked forward to tug at his beard. And his Indian wife, was she not the fairest flower of all the meadows?
The Headmen voted with their stones, the decision easily going in favor of Caleb’s offer. Although there was some muttering, it was also agreed that Touch the Sky was the logical choice to serve as pathfinder, since he spoke the paleface tongue and knew the Sans Arc range well. Again the ceremonial calumet was smoked to signify the ratification of the private treaty. But Touch the Sky noticed that Black Elk and several others refused to smoke.
Afterward, as the braves filed from the council lodge, Caleb was beaming. “Ha-ho, ha-ho,” he said to Touch the Sky in Cheyenne. “I thank you very much. You just made the investors in my company very happy—and saved my bacon into the deal.”
Again, hearing the confident tone in the tenderfoot’s voice, Touch the Sky recalled Tom’s warning that his brother was green and a bit reckless. He foolishly assumed that the vote just now signified the end of his troubles. Clearly he knew little about the West, not to mention human treachery.
There were natural enemies enough waiting in the mountains: whitewater rivers, steep cliffs, bottomless gorges. But Caleb knew nothing of the conflict within the tribe, had understood little of what Black Elk and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling had said in council.
Touch the Sky watched them now, conferring in a little circle in front of Black Elk’s tipi: perhaps a dozen of them, with many more allies scattered throughout the camp. A formidable force—and all of them about to be unleashed to not only stop this spur line, but also kill Touch the Sky.
This was trouble Touch the Sky had learned to expect, as a bird will instinctively watch a snake. What bothered him even more was the medicine dream he had experienced the night before, a vision which warned of a fierce new enemy—and showed him a vivid image of Caleb and Little Horse. They were clinging desperately to an iron horse as it jumped its narrow path and hurtled them toward their fiery death in a canyon below.