“What?” Medicine Woman Later’s voice rose shrill across the camp as she trundled after her husband, following him to their lodge, where she would build up the fire and set some meat to boil.
“Keep your voice down, woman!” he grumped as she shuffled along beside him through the snowdrifts that had gathered in crusty, wind-sculpted ridges between the old lodges.
He was weary of the travel. Weary too of her harping at him. Most of all, Black Kettle felt as drained as an empty water skin, trying to keep the peace with the white man while keeping his people alive at the same time. Again he wondered if he was up to the task. Perhaps he should step aside as leader of his people.
“I do not like this news you bring us!” She was as hoarse as the creaky lid on an old rawhide parfleche box.
“I am not deaf, woman!” Immediately he was sorry for snapping at her and turned to find that she had ground to a halt in her tracks.
Medicine Woman Later stood with snow piled up to her knees. Her gray head hung, and as she began to weep, Black Kettle came back to her side. He put his arms around her, gently encircling her within the curly warmth of his robe.
“Why is it that you cry, woman? Was it that my words were cruel and cutting—sharp like your favorite knife?”
“No,” she sobbed. “I suddenly realize you truly are deaf, my husband.”
He snorted. “I hear you perfectly.”
“Why is it you cannot hear the agent Wynkoop and that soldier chief Hazen when they warn you of danger coming down upon our heads?”
She scurried through the opening in the lodge cover, seeking the warmth of their fire.
“I am not deaf, woman,” Black Kettle muttered softly, hoping the argument was over.
For too long he had hoped to make all things right for his people. He had listened to both the Indian agent and commander at Fort Lyons some four winters ago, taking his people to camp where the white men guaranteed his people would be safe from harm. There in the grassy, shaded meadows along Sand Creek a few miles above its junction with the Arkansas River his Cheyenne camp had awakened that November morning to the rumbling roar of cannon tearing through their hide lodges, iron shrapnel scattering blood and gore across the snow. They were peaceful Cheyenne. Black Kettle had seen to it that the agent’s flag of white stars and red stripes flew above the camp to show any soldiers who came that they were Indians protected by the Grandfather in far away Washington City.
His flag had not turned the bullets and cannonballs, sabers and bloodlust of Colonel John M. Chivington’s enraged Colorado militia.
“If you are not deaf,” his wife grumbled, offering him a bowl of hot meat and broth, “then surely you must be crazy.”
“Perhaps I am touched by the moon.” He chewed on the softened meat with what he had left of teeth.
She turned away, muttering to no one at all. “My husband, he is a crazy man.” Pulling a small morsel from the kettle, she plopped it on the end of her tongue. “He is told we should move our camp. He is warned the pony soldiers are roaming this land where we camp for the winter—pony soldiers looking for the white prisoners taken by the foolish young men downriver. We could have moved long ago when Hazen and Wynkoop learned where we raised our camp. Their skin is white. Surely, Hazen will tell the pony soldiers where we camp … here where we wait like possums for the pony soldiers to ride down on us again.”
She sat back atop buffalo robes and blankets, drawing her knees up against her withered dugs. “No, my husband. If you are not deaf and truly can hear Hazen’s words of warning, then you must be crazy.”
Her clucking slowly faded as she carried on the angry tantrum all by herself. Eventually her tirade was replaced by the sweet, rhythmic melody of the great honkers swooping overhead. What pretty music to Black Kettle’s soul their flying-talk had become through the many seasons of his life. Melody birds, flying south this time, far away from this cold land where the white man had plunged a knife deep into the heart of the Earth Mother.
Black Kettle ached to be far away to the south where he did not have to worry about the snow and the cold and the pony soldiers searching for a Cheyenne winter camp while the rivers grew slow and icy.
He wanted nothing more than to listen to the mournful song of the last departing geese.
CHAPTER 4
ONCE the sun ducked its head back in its hole far behind the western edge of the earth, the air itself chewed on an old man’s bones. Kiowa chief Lone Wolf wrapped the thick winter robe tightly about his shoulders. Once more he was glad his youngest son had chosen to kill this fat cow almost two moons ago when the shaggy hides grew thick for the coming of winter.
Lone Wolf smiled as he watched more of the lodges in his village begin to glow, warmed with the cook fires of his people. Earlier each afternoon darkness slithered down this valley of the Washita. Already the shadows ran deep among the villages by the water. To the west lay the old one’s village, as that cold, creeping tongue of night snaked its way up the icy river. Black Kettle’s small band of Cheyennes.
Turning with a shudder, the Kiowa chief started for his warm lodge and hot supper when what seemed the thunder of half a thousand pounding hooves stayed his feet. Shouts of greeting and cries of congratulation rang through camp. Lone Wolf grinned, wrinkling his leathery face. It must have been a good hunt for the two riders who pulled up beside their chief.
“Where is Hump Fat?” Lone Wolf asked with chattering teeth.
“That one,
“What do you mean?”
“He stays over in Black Kettle’s camp. They invited us to a dance they will hold with the falling of the sun. But Sees Red and I decided we best bring these Ute ponies home to our camp.”
“You found many horses in the land of the Utes, yes?”
“Not as many as we would have liked to find, Uncle!” All three laughed. “We had to travel far to find the Ute villages. By my count-stick, forty-three suns have come and gone—so Hump Fat wants to do nothing more until he finds a maiden to warm his robes tonight. He cannot wait!”
“Does he not know the Cheyenne guard their chastity with more than just a buffalo-hair rope tied about a woman’s loins?” Lone Wolf asked.
“They guard the chastity of their women with the same vengeance they use when they go to war!” young Rabbit Way exclaimed.
“I am glad it was a good hunt for you,” Lone Wolf said. “To bring back so many fine Ute ponies without the loss of a friend—it was a good journey. I am happy you did not have to leave your hair along the way! Our village can celebrate when you have given the horses away. Do you think the Utes will follow the wide trail all these new Kiowa ponies made in your travel across the snowy land?”
“No, Uncle,” Sees Red answered. “The Utes did not follow us after the fourth day of hard riding. They turned back like frightened women, afraid to reclaim their ponies. But we did see a very large trail that worries us both.”
“Yes?” The older man looked back and forth between the two young horse thieves. “Tell me of this trail.”
Rabbit Way answered: “A trail far wider and deeper than all our new ponies together would cut in the snow.”
“There is more you must tell?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Sees Red added. “The trail spoke to us of horses wearing the white man’s iron on their hooves.”
“Pony soldiers?”
“Perhaps,” Rabbit Way admitted. “Any man could read the wide, deep trail, seeing many hundreds of iron- shod horses that cut deep into the crust of the old snow near the Antelope Hills. They drag the big wagons behind them—pointing their noses into the land of the south winds.”
