behind them. Instead of runoff, what filled the wide, sandy path of that ravine seemed to be the whole of the Cheyenne nation on the march between the willow and alder, plum brush and cottonwood. Ahead and on both sides of the column rode the painted, resplendent warriors atop their prancing ponies, old men and women trundling along on foot among the travois ponies, children and dogs darting here and there and everywhere noisily among the entire procession. On the nearby east bank of the fork, pony boys worked the huge herd.
Shad could see the lust for that herd in the Pawnee’s eyes as he glanced at the others, could see the lust for all that finery of blankets and robes, kettles and clothing. Although they wore pieces of the army uniform and dressed by and large in the white man’s clothing, riding army horses and carrying army weapons, the Pawnee were still Indians who coveted the spoils of war that could be wrenched from their ancient enemy.
“That Tall Bull’s bunch?” whispered Lieutenant Harvey.
Luther North nodded, a finger to his lips for quiet. “Can’t be no one else, can it, Mr. Sweete?”
“I figure the lieutenant here guessed right.”
“What a stroke of good fortune, fellas,” North continued. “For some time now the army’s figured it was Tall Bull’s band of Dog Soldiers that’s been causing all the trouble after Sandy Forsyth’s bunch made Roman Nose a good Indian at Beecher Island.”
“That bunch is Cheyenne, all right,” Shad replied. “Damn—but that’s one big shitteree of ’em too, boys.”
Less than two hundred yards away, the entire procession wound past the hilltop unawares, many of the ponies burdened with fresh, bloodied buffalo meat shot and butchered that very day. The seven observers fell quiet for long minutes as they peered down on the colorful, noisy cavalcade, until they saw the vanguard move out of sight among the brush as the village neared the mouth of the fork.
“Look at ’em, Mr. Sweete, and tell me if that bunch don’t look about as done in as Carr’s outfit is.”
“You ain’t far from the mark, Cap’n. Tall Bull’s village ain’t had it any easier than Carr’s cavalry—not with women and young’uns to tote along, what with all their lodges and truck.”
North turned with a grim smile crossing his crusted face. “I’ve swallowed enough dust to last a lifetime, but —we’ve got some news to carry to General Carr. Let’s get.”
“While the getting is good, fellas,” Sweete agreed. “I got a bad feeling that some of those bucks down there might just want to ride on up here and take a look-see around the country … like we done.”
North signed his Pawnee back from the top of the hill, and together the seven trotted downhill to the grazing horses. Taking up their reins, the outriders walked their animals downstream more than fifty yards before mounting.
“You care to lead out, Mr. Sweete?” The tension and excitement of the evening’s momentous discovery was clearly etched on the soldier’s face as his eyes burned into the old trapper’s.
As much as he didn’t care for Lute North, Shad had to admit the major’s younger brother was acting downright civil about things. “Don’t mind if I do,” Sweete replied, turning to the five trackers and making some quick hand talk.
“What was that he told them, Cap’n?” asked Lieutenant Harvey.
North snorted as Sweete swung his horse around and put it into a quick lope that had worked itself into a hard gallop within ten yards. “That old scout just told them Pawnee they’d better lock themselves down on their ponies—because they were in for one fast ride!”
20
FOR THREE NIGHTS High-Backed Bull had cursed himself for not scraping together the courage to turn around and ride back among the Shaved-Heads, taking the scalp of the one he had shot in their raid on the soldier camp.
Not that any of the other Dog Soldiers found fault with him. Indeed, Porcupine and the handful of the others in on the horse raid all sang Bull’s praises for charging alone among the enemy to count coup. Bull realized Porcupine knew the truth: that the young warrior had been less interested in counting coup on the Shaved-Heads than he was intent on assuring himself that the tall man he had seen during the fight among the sandhills was not his father.
Still, the truth is ofttimes an elusive thing, likely dressed in the clothing of an impersonator and often hiding behind the paint of a warrior’s mask.
Perhaps if he had waited after the rest of Porcupine’s raiding party fled the area near the soldier camp. Perhaps if he had stayed behind, not to take the scalp of the Shaved-Head he killed, but to lie just beyond the fringe of firelight. Watching. Patient. Then he might have caught a glimpse of the tall man his mother called Rising Fire, there among the soldiers and trackers. In the end Bull cursed himself, deciding he had missed the chance to kill the one who the white men called Sweete.
“There will come a time soon when we go after the soldier horses, to trouble them on our backtrail,” Porcupine had said.
“No. They’re getting too close for us to hit them and run any longer,” Bull countered. “The distance has narrowed so that we can no longer take the chance of leaving our village behind. Instead, the warriors must remain close to protect the women and old ones.”
Porcupine had looked at Bull strangely, then said, “Why do I have the feeling in my belly that those are only words to you—and not the guiding fire in your Dog Soldier’s heart? Why can I no longer trust that you really believe what you are saying?”
Maybe the truth did indeed parade itself in any costume to fit the occasion.
But he was not the only one in that camp who toyed with the truth. Why had Tall Bull and White Horse said they would gladly turn over their white captives to the soldiers, if only the soldier column would stop dogging their village? Bull knew better. Neither of the war chiefs would willingly give up their white women. Not without a fight. And in these last days, that was what troubled him most: brooding on what it was about those white-skinned ones—about his own white blood.
Was it the evil of the white women that made the thinking of the two war chiefs run crooked? Was that why Tall Bull and White Horse thought more of themselves than they did of the rest of their people?
So was it his own white blood that caused Bull to test and push and strain at the truth? Was it the blood from the one the whites called Sweete that made it so easy for High-Backed Bull to lie?
No longer was Bull only angry. Now he was afraid. Feeling tainted and dirty, from the inside out—not sure if he could trust himself any longer.
Upriver at all possible speed to catch those Cheyenne.
Even Lieutenant Becher’s detail of ten Pawnee had themselves a running scrap of it with a small war party on the ninth.
The trail was about as hot as it could get, to Shad’s way of thinking. And to look around at the grimy, dust- caked faces of those young troopers this morning, a man could see there wasn’t a damned one of them who didn’t know he was headed into a bloody fight of it.
It was only a matter of time now.
Through that morning Shad and the Pawnee scouts came across two of the Cheyenne campsites, in addition to the camp he had watched Tall Bull’s people setting up the night before. In a matter of grueling, sand-slogging miles, Major Carr’s Fifth Cavalry had eaten up the Dog Soldiers’ lead by three days. It was there at the site of the enemy’s last camp that the regimental commander halted, ordering the entire outfit prepared for any eventuality from here on out. As well, Carr sent back a half dozen of the Pawnee trackers and two soldiers to bring in with all possible speed the supply train due down from Fort McPherson.
As the sun grew all the hotter and the men sat sweating beside Frenchman’s Fork, Shad watched a discussion on the command’s readiness turn into a petty argument as tempers flared, embroiling both Carr and Major Frank North. While the civilian did all that he could to urge keeping the column on the move to catch the
