Little Horse, nervous sweat making his palms slippery, stooped down to check on his friend’s progress. This spot Little Horse occupied was almost as dangerous as Touch the Sky’s continually shifting position. Only a small apron of shadow hid him from the sentinels in the pine trees.
He glanced up the track and saw that Touch the Sky had almost reached his goal.
Steady, brother, he thought. Steady. Only a few moments more.
Finally, his elbows and knees shredded and bloody, Touch the Sky reached the last car.
He could see nothing from here where he lay on the ground, just the well-greased couple-joint and the short iron peg that held the two cars together.
He could hear the renegades all around him, see their feet and legs. All of them, except for the sentinels, still congregated tightly around this last car.
Cautiously, Touch the Sky stretched one arm forward to snatch the coupling peg out.
~*~
Sis-ki-dee grinned when he saw a hand reaching up between the cars. Quietly slinging his rifle around one shoulder, he slid the razor-edged Bowie knife from his sash. Now would come his chance to avenge himself for the humiliation this Noble Cheyenne made him eat! This knife could easily slice the callus off a pony’s hooves. Sis-ki-dee would begin by slicing off his hand and throwing it down into his face.
He moved cautiously, maneuvering into a better position to strike.
~*~
Little Horse stared constantly toward Touch the Sky now, waiting for the signal. Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he saw an odd sight—a rifle muzzle had suddenly jutted out from between the last two cars. Just the muzzle, and it was rather high off the ground.
Meaning ... ?
Abruptly, Little Horse understood.
He forgot all about the sentinels. Little Horse quickly stood, snapped off a shot at the muzzle.
“Brother!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Look lively, you are spotted!”
The rest happened quickly, like a blur in dream time, Touch the Sky thought.
His fingers had just touched the cold iron peg when Little Horse’s shot rang out, followed by his shouted warning. The peg popped out and clattered to the tracks, somebody grunted, and a moment later Sis-ki-dee flopped to the ground beside him. His arm was bleeding from Little Horse’s bullet, which had ricocheted off the iron ladder and penetrated his shoulder!
But the confusion didn’t stop when his enemy literally dropped in on him.
Ernie Beckmann, nervous as a snake in a stampede, was convinced that Little Horse’s shot and shout must be the signal. He slapped his pressure valve, engaged the drive wheels, and the train suddenly surged forward.
Touch the Sky had no time to worry about Sis-ki-dee. He had only one thought as he scrambled out from under the moving train, wheels barely missing him. While the surprised Blackfoot warriors gaped in disbelief, he knew he must exploit the element of surprise or all was lost. He broke into a hard, zigzagging run away from the train, stringing his specially prepared arrow as he ran.
The engine lugged ahead, pulling the other boxcars away.
“Kill him!” Sis-ki-dee screamed, struggling to his feet. “Kill him!”
Touch the Sky stopped about a hundred feet out, turned, drew his bowstring taut. Now bullets rained past his head. Cheers erupted from the boxcars where the miners and rail gang were trapped.
Sis-ki-dee, the only Blackfoot present who understood about dynamite, suddenly took a closer look at that odd arrow. Abruptly, he understood what this crazy Cheyenne must be trying to do! He didn’t bother trying to warn his men. Instead, he turned and bolted for the pine trees, getting back out of blast range.
Touch the Sky launched his exploding arrow. It cleared the knot of Blackfoot braves, sailed through the open doorway of the car, and solidly embedded itself inside. For one long, cold, disappointing moment, nothing happened.
We’re dead, Touch the Sky thought with numb shock. We’re all dead.
One heartbeat later and there was a little popping explosion as the pouch ignited.
Two heartbeats later and the entire universe exploded.
It was a loud snapping flash like a gas pocket going up. A huge fireball climbed itself straight up into the sky, quickly diffused into a starburst spray of bright-orange sparks. Far off across the clearing, it began to rain bits of lumber and dead Blackfoot Indians. Though the explosion rocked the rest of the cars, knocking one slightly off the track and injuring a few men slightly, they were spared from any major destruction.
Sis-ki-dee had just barely dived behind the trees before the explosion hurtled deadly debris behind him. When the smoke began to clear, he saw that not one Blackfoot remained near the tracks. Those in the trees had already fled for their lives, as their leader was preparing to do now.
But first, before he wheeled his big claybank and raced to safety, he met the Cheyenne’s eyes. He spoke in his mixture of Cheyenne and Lakota.
“You have won the day, Noble Red Man. But Sis-ki-dee swears this. His trail will cross yours soon enough. And then I will skin your face off and lay it over mine with you still alive to see it!”
The blast had left Touch the Sky numb with its force, his ears still ringing as Sis-ki-dee spoke this parting threat. Now, as he moved a few tentative, unsteady steps, the doors of the boxcars were thrown open and a rousing cheer filled the clearing. The Cheyenne saw Nat Sloan and Liam McKinney racing toward him, ear-to-ear smiles on their faces.
A somewhat nervous, stiff-faced Little Horse had already been hoisted onto the men’s shoulders. Now Touch the Sky felt himself being lifted to join him. Others raced toward the scree to help Caleb and Woman Dress. But even as he was lifted high, Touch the Sky’s eyes scanned the trees around them for more enemies.
~*~
By the end of the warm moons the spur line was completed and the Far West Mining Firm operating again at full profit. As promised, Caleb Riley delivered a second wagonload of goods to Gray Thunder’s tribe.
But the Council of Forty was struck speechless when Caleb informed them the entire tribe would continue to profit from the mine so long as it operated. A share of the profits was being set aside for them, he promised, and would be paid twice each year in trade goods. A talking paper had been drawn up and filed in Laramie, insuring this payment so long as the mine operated.
“Little brother,” Arrow Keeper informed him after the councilors had discussed this last, amazing offer, “this Caleb Riley has done much to alter the tribe’s opinion that all Yellow Eyes are dogs. But the hand that whirls the water in the pool stirs the quicksand. Your enemies have been unable to turn this against you, so far. But they are planting the seeds. Soon, many will forget their gratitude for these trade goods. They will remember only that they come from the hand of whites—whites you have befriended.
“Swift Canoe still swears by the sun and the earth that Caleb Riley is the same Bluecoat you knew in Bighorn Falls, not his brother. He, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, and others still insist this mine is only part of a larger plot, a clever plan to steal Cheyenne lands permanently. Their lies will convert more followers as time passes.”
Touch the Sky nodded, knowing these words flew straight-arrow. Across the camp clearing, Honey Eater had just ducked outside of her tipi to empty a cooking pot.
Their eyes met, held. And then, the effort causing him physical pain, he tore his eyes away from hers. For despite his recent victory over the Contrary Warrior, his enemies were everywhere—perhaps watching him this very moment. He would not send them running to Black Elk, reporting this glance.
And Sis-ki-dee. Never would Touch the Sky forget that he had seen this insane renegade stalking side by side with his enemy, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. No doubt the two had laid plans for the future. Sis-ki-dee would return, as he promised.
“You are right, father,” he finally replied. “Black Elk taught me that life is being a soldier. So, like a good soldier, I will keep my weapons to hand. I will fire at none who do not fire at me first. But when the war cry sounds—”
He trailed off for a moment, an image of a white man coming to his mind: a white man named C. J. Stone who fired six times and sent six murderers across and then died the glorious death with a tribute to the Cheyenne people on his lips.
“When the war cry sounds,” Touch the Sky said firmly, “it will be one bullet for one enemy, even if that enemy is a Cheyenne.”