had come to visit, here on an inland sea of rolling, grass-covered surf.
More like paying homage, this visit was. To beg the attendance of the mighty Cheyenne of the central plains.
After the old mountain man had arranged the prisoner exchange at North Platte, General Phil Sheridan himself, that banty Irishman who commanded this part of the frontier, had personally asked Shad Sweete to lead this effort to assure that Turkey Leg and his headmen would come to Medicine Lodge Creek when the new moon had grown to half its full size. That’s when the white peace-talkers would once more assemble with the chiefs, to forge some kind of lasting agreement with the bands roaming Kansas and Nebraska—where the white man was pushing harder than ever, bringing his plow and raising sod houses and laying his iron rails.
Shad knew exactly how the bands felt. When the stench of human offal and waste in their camps grew too much to take, the bands simply took down their lodges and moved to a new campsite. Once more allowing the land and the wind and the rolling rhythm of the seasons to cleanse the breast of the mother of all things.
Such beauty, simplicity, he thought. So simple that its beauty continued to escape the white man. For only the white man squatted and never moved on. Continuing to live where he took a shit. A quarter century ago as a nomadic fur trapper, Shad had learned a better way. Man truly was not meant to live long in one place. Better that he took his shit, and moved on. Like the buffalo.
Dogs barking among the horses’ hooves announced the coming of the four white men—civilians all.
Women rose from their work at new buffalo hides that had been taken in the weeks before the village was required to move for its safety away from the white man and his Pawnee trackers. Each woman, young and old, holding an elk-handled scraper, with only the power of their resolve and muscle slowly working the flesh from the great white-and-red hides staked out like huge squares demarcating the outskirts of Turkey Leg’s village.
Old men rose from their places in the warm sun that afternoon. They had been talking of days gone by when the meat was good and fleet were the ponies a man could steal from the Pawnee or Crow or Ute. Then the young horsemen were among the lodges, making a show of themselves, more weapons in evidence now. Bows, yes—but many more rifles than Shad had expected he would see.
“This bunch been raiding to get them guns?” asked Hook from the side of his mouth as the four white men entered the outskirts of the lodge circle.
The air was strong with smoked hides and grease, pungent with wood smoke and boiling meat. Fragrant with the incense of white sage. Far better were those perfumes than any meal of boiled potatoes and red whiskey and a cigar smoked after a man had himself a full belly. Shad thought of Shell Woman, then worried for their son.
With warriors and headmen spread out from him like the sides of an arrow point, Turkey Leg waited for the white men to approach, halt, and dismount. The old chief motioned forward some young boys, who took the reins to the four horses and led the animals away.
“It is always good to see you, my friend,” Shad said, smiling at the old chief.
Turkey Leg smiled in return. “How is life for you, Indian-talker?”
“Some things could be better, I suppose. But, what life is worth living if it is not filled with lessons to be learned?”
“You always pose questions that this old man cannot easily answer.” The chief motioned for the other three white men to follow, taking Sweete by the arm as he turned toward his lodge erected at the center of the camp crescent. “Come. We will eat. Then smoke. And only then will we hear why you have journeyed here. I suppose you want me to go listen to words of the peace-talkers once more.”
“My belly talks now,” Shad said, grinning. “It is so empty. Yes—we will eat, then with the pipe speak of the peace-talkers.”
More than two hours passed in that lodge filled with white man and red alike. Eating first the jerked meat passed among the circle while the main course came to a boil. After every man had licked his fingers clean and finished his coffee flavored with generous heapings of sugar, the pipe was lit. It was the first time, Sweete knew, that Jonah had been witness to such a conference, held at the leisurely pace of the plains Indian, with no artificial timetable to be satisfied. Only the dictates of the old men themselves.
Turkey Leg cleared his throat. “Black Kettle comes to this talk planned for Medicine Lodge Creek?”
“Yes, he and Medicine Arrow.”
The chief nodded, looking at the faces of his headmen. “The one who was once called Rock Forehead. He is a powerful chief.”
“Three from the Southern Cheyenne will come. Those two and Little Robe as well.”
“And of the Kiowa?”
“We believe White Bear and Lone Wolf will attend with their warriors to talk of making peace on this part of the plains,” Sweete answered.
For a long time the pipe passed among those seated in a grand circle in that lodge. No man talking, only the noise of the pipe as air was drawn down through the bowl, only the music of camp life outside the lodge. Children playing, dogs barking, and ponies coming and going through the browned cones raised against the autumn sky.
“We are going south with the coming of winter,” Turkey Leg began after a long, considered silence. “It is there that winter will not arrive as soon, nor will it last as long. Yes, perhaps we can raise our lodges beside Medicine Lodge Creek with the others who will speak with the peace-talkers.”
“You will be there by the time the moon is half-full?” Shad asked the old chief.
Turkey Leg looked about the lodge at his headmen. No man spoke, no man gave signal that he disapproved. “We will come talk this one last time to the white soldier chiefs. Perhaps we will hear something that is good in their words.”
“They want all the bands to live in peace with the white settlers.”
“But the white man fails to understand that we do not want to live in peace with his people. We do not want to live with the white man at all.” Turkey Leg sighed.
The expression on the old chief’s face spoke something to Sweete, as if Turkey Leg understood more of what was in the scout’s heart than what the white scout had ever spoken.
“There are some among us who believe we can live near your people,” the chief went on. “Yet there are a few among us who will never hold anything but a bad heart for the white man.”
“It is the same among my people,” Shad replied. “While some want to put an end to your way of life forever, there are still many who would try to find a way for both white man and red man to live side by side, each in his own way.”
“In some men,” Turkey Leg came to the point, “there are both bloods at war.”
Shad saw the meaning more clear in the old man’s eyes than in his words. “You would mean a young warrior who has in his veins the blood of our two peoples?”
Turkey Leg nodded. A few of the older men grunted their assent. “You have been among our people for many winters. You came among us when there were few white men. Now I am told the numbers of white men in the east are greater than the stars at night.”
Shad smiled. “Sometimes I think there are more white men than there are buffalo chips on this great prairie.”
Most of the old men chuckled at the analogy. Shad felt the lightening of the mood within the lodge as the sun fell headlong into the west.
“Where is it I might find word of High-Backed Bull?” he asked bluntly.
“You worry about your son, don’t you?”
“As any father would, Turkey Leg.”
“This is good. A son must protect his parents. And a man must care for his children.”
“Your mother?”
“She is well. Thank you again.”
“We speak the same heart when we talk of family, Turkey Leg. There is nothing more important than family.”
The old chief knocked into his palm what ash was left in the pipe bowl after its fourth circuit of the lodge. The burnt residue he tossed into the fire pit at his feet before he removed the red stone bowl from the ash stem. Only then did he seek to fill the silence in that lodge.
“Your son, he has cursed his white blood. You must know this before you go searching to find him.”
“He curses the blood I gave him?”
