Long Winter Gone

voice, his eyes staring at the faint ghost trails of steam rising from his coffee.

“Pony soldiers?” Heap of Birds squeaked, his warm belly suddenly grown cold.

“The white chief wants to have a joke with you, Black Kettle?” asked Slim Face.

“He did not smile while I was three days at Fort Cobb.”

“Then surely you are the one who is the fool for listening to his words,” Red Shin growled.

Red Shin had never been much of an ally to Black Kettle. It was even common knowledge that while the old chief did much to promote peaceful coexistence with the white man, young Red Shin led war party after war party north to the white settlements of Kansas, killing, stealing, carrying off the captives who were at this very hour scattered among the other camps along the Washita.

Black Kettle’s old rheumy eyes climbed over the lip of his tin cup. “A fool is one who will not listen to what the insistent winds bid him.”

“Hah! A fool is one who listens to Hazen!”

Immediate agreement with Red Shin’s words rumbled through the lodge. Black Kettle patiently waited for quiet before he spoke again.

“When has Hazen told us something not the truth?” he said.

Red Shin spat contemptuously into the fire. “He is a pony soldier, old man! A white pony soldier who sits in his little fort, robe season after robe season, and knows nothing of the life lived as our grandfathers hunted these plains.”

“It would be a mistake for us to stop believing in his counsel.”

“The only mistake we have made, old man, is that we listened to your counsel … coming to winter on the Washita with you.”

“You say that? While our brothers and cousins—Kiowa, Cheyenne, and Arapaho—spend the winter here in this valley with our people?”

Several of the older chiefs and warriors grunted their approval of Black Kettle’s point.

“Foolish old women too!” Red Shin rocked back on his haunches, glaring at his chief. “Still, a few of their brave warriors ride north with me to attack those white settlements that spread like dung fouling our ancient buffalo lands. A few young men with brave hearts beating beneath their breasts.”

“Black Kettle is not an old woman!” Medicine Elk Pipe howled in protest across the fire.

“You agree that we must believe in the word of a soldier chief?” Red Shin demanded of the man who many times had accompanied him on his early scalp and pony raids.

“I do not often agree with Black Kettle. Yet I, Medicine Elk Pipe, agree that Hazen has done nothing to harm the Cheyenne people.”

“Hah!” Red Shin roared. “Because we have never given him the chance!”

“True, my friend,” Medicine Elk Pipe said calmly. “We must never give him the chance to hurt our people. Yet what harm comes in listening to what he now warns us?”

“Has your heart grown old and—”

Red Shin’s head drooped. He could not bear to look at the powerful warrior who had for years been his respected mentor. He looked at this man now as a coward.

“My brother Tsistsistas.—” Medicine Elk Pipe filled the silence in Black Kettle’s lodge, “Red Shin is young but you know he does not lack courage. Long have I been proud to have it known that Red Shin learned his courage in battle from Medicine Elk Pipe. But what Red Shin failed to learn is the danger that comes from words too quickly spoken. I know Red Shin is sorry and wishes the council to know this.”

From most of the council arose quiet assent, for this above all else was a great thing for Medicine Elk Pipe to do. Instead of lashing out to challenge the youth who had all but called him a coward, Medicine Elk Pipe had jumped to the young man’s defense, seeking to explain Red Shin’s emotional outburst.

“So it must be in Red Shin’s heart as it is in mine to wonder what General Hazen seeks to accomplish by warning Black Kettle of the pony soldiers marching in Cheyenne country this very night.”

Every head in the lodge turned from Medicine Elk Pipe to the old chief.

“Perhaps Hazen does not wish to have the coming war carried to his doorstep,” Black Kettle responded. “If he warned us of the soldiers heading our way, and we were able to avoid conflict, matters for him would be all the more peaceful.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Medicine Elk Pipe replied.

“But if there are soldiers in our country, who is it they look for?” Little Rock inquired. He sat at the chiefs left hand, a place of honor as the second in command and one in charge of tribal matters during Black Kettle’s frequent absences from camp. No man among them could forget that Little Rock had lost his wife at Sand Creek.

“They are looking for the warriors who raid north of the Arkansas,” Medicine Elk Pipe admitted when everyone else remained dumb, slow to accuse. “Those who have killed whites along Walnut Creek and Pawnee Fork, north into the settlements that daily sprout up along the Saline and Solomon rivers. Soldiers look for Kiowas who took scalps and burned the settlers’ wooden lodges. They look for Kiowas and our own Cheyenncs who rode with them these last six moons of blood-spilling!”

Medicine Elk Pipe looked at Red Shin, waited until the young man’s eyes met his across the leaping flames of Black Kettle’s lodge fire. “These soldiers who come, they are looking for Kiowas and Cheyennes—are they not, little brother?”

Red Shin nodded once, unable to meet the accusing eyes of all about him.

“Did you not ask Hazen for safety from these soldiers?” Little Rock asked Black Kettle.

“Yes, my friend. It was the first thing I thought to ask of him. Because our band is so small, I asked the soldier chief if we could camp near the walls of Fort Cobb, to winter there in safety.”

“What did he say?” the ancient one, Heap of Birds, asked.

“Hazen, my old friend and counselor, said he could not give us sanctuary at the fort.”

“Why not?”

“He told me if he protected us in the shadow of his walls, his chief would take him away because he had helped us. You see, if he allowed us to come to the fort, he would have to allow Satanta and his many Kiowas. Hazen does not trust Satanta.”

“We cannot rely on the help of a soldier chief,” Medicine Elk Pipe said. “What we do from here on out, we do because we are Tsistsistas.”

“Long have I thought on it during the journey home,” Black Kettle explained. “I cannot instruct any of you what to think in your minds, what to feel in your hearts. All I can do as chief is ask that each man sees that none of our young men leaves camp during the next few weeks while pony soldiers search for our winter villages. We must give the soldiers no reason to follow a war party back here.”

“And what of the others?” Little Rock snapped. “What if the other tribes along the river draw us into trouble?”

“We will talk to the elders of these other tribes with the coming of the new sun,” Black Kettle suggested.

“Surely we can do more than talk!” Bark Face squeaked in dismay. “We are not strong. We must move closer to the others downstream!”

“Perhaps even better,” Little Rock said, “is to send out a party to find these soldiers. We should parley with them. Tell the soldiers we are not at war with them.”

Black Kettle chewed on that for a moment, his eyes studying the somber faces of his friends. “There is agreement on this matter. It is a good idea, Little Rock.”

“It is decided?” Medicine Elk Pipe inquired.

“Yes, young friend,” Black Kettle affirmed. “In the morning I will send runners to the other camps, inviting their chiefs to come with the falling of the sun and council with us about these soldiers who hunger for a fight. More runners will go out to find these pony soldiers—to tell them we wish to parley and want no trouble. We are on land the Grandfather far away said we could keep as long as the buffalo roamed it. We will be safe here, my brothers.”

“I am sure Red Shin will volunteer,” Medicine Elk Pipe said. “As I myself volunteer to go parley with the soldiers.”

“Red Shin?” Black Kettle turned his tired eyes toward the young warrior.

“Yes. I will go, with Medicine Elk Pipe. His council has never brought any man harm that I know of.”