Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 (7 page)

Slow was truly growing up. He was no longer a boy, and not quite yet a man, but that would
change tomorrow, or the day after, and both of them knew it. Slow was eager, but Sitting Bull felt resigned, almost sad. He had spent his life trying to keep Slow safe, but soon—sooner than he wanted to admit—it would no longer be up to him. Slow would have to fend for himself, and that would be even more difficult than it had been twenty winters before, when Sitting Bull had himself been just a boy.

Sitting Bull draped an arm around Slow’s shoulders. “So, what do you think?” he asked.

“About what?”

Sitting Bull shrugged his shoulders. “This. Being on the warpath …”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is it what you thought it would be?”

Slow paused a moment to think, then shook his head. “No. It’s boring. I thought it would be different. I thought it would be exciting.”

Sitting Bull laughed. “If we find the Crows we are looking for, it will not be boring. That much I can tell you.”

“When will we find them?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if we
will
find them. Sometimes we ride for days, and if it weren’t for our own reflections in the water, we would see no one at all. Sometimes we find more than we were looking for. Those are the worst times, the times when we lose a friend or a relative.”

“The Crows are nothing to be afraid of.”

“Yes, they are. All enemies are to be feared. A man who does not fear his enemy is a fool. The
warrior does what he has to do even though he is afraid.”

“Still, I am not afraid.”

“That is good. Right now, there is nothing to be afraid of. Perhaps tomorrow it will be different.”

“Do you think we will find the Crows tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

“What if we don’t?”

“Then we will find them the next day … or the day after that.”

“I hope so.”

“The horses are all taken care of?” Sitting Bull asked.

Slow nodded. “Yes. But tonight I don’t have to stand guard. It is Small Eagle’s turn.”

“Maybe you should get some sleep, son. Tomorrow will be a long day, just like today and yesterday. Every day is the same on the warpath. And if we do find the Crows, you will need your rest.”

Slow was reluctant. He wanted to stay by Sitting Bull’s side, but he knew his father was right. He was not used to the rigors of the warpath. He was accustomed to sleeping when he was tired and rising when he felt like it. The warpath was a special place, and one had to think of others. If he was tired, he might be careless, and if he was careless, he might get someone hurt, maybe even killed, and he did not want that on his conscience.

He walked away from the fire and lay down on the ground. He had his brand-new coup stick by his side, and he curled his fingers around the
leather grip. It was beginning to look like the only Crows he would see would be in his dreams, and he might as well go armed.

He woke up later, the fire long since out. He thought he had heard a noise, but as he lay there, straining his ears, he began to think he had dreamed it. Trying to keep his eyes open was more than he could bear, and a few minutes later, he was asleep again.

Sitting Bull woke him early, shaking him by the shoulder. He sat up slowly, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and reached for the dried buffalo meat Sitting Bull proferred. He chewed the meat slowly, aware of his aching muscles but trying his best to ignore them.

The sun was already warm on his skin, and as he looked around the camp, he realized that he was the last one to awaken. He felt embarrassed, but Sitting Bull didn’t mention it. No sooner had he swallowed the last of the dried meat than Sitting Bull called to him to mount his pony. It was time to move on.

The scouts were already out, and the war party rode along slowly, letting their horses reserve their energy. If they encountered Crows, they would need all of it and more. So far from home, possibly outnumbered, perhaps heavily, they would have to be prepared to run for their lives. And if they found Crows and there were not too many, then the ponies would need their strength for the chase and the ensuing battle. It was a delicate balance, and there was always the chance that the difference between life and death
would depend on the sturdy ponies beneath them.

The sun was almost overhead when the scouts appeared on a ridge ahead. Good-Voiced Elk rode out to meet them, and the rest of the war party waited anxiously to find out what he had learned. When he returned, he told the warriors that there was a Crow war party ahead, nearly forty strong. Two to one was not such bad odds, and it was decided to move ahead and set a trap for them.

On the far side of the hill, there was a long, narrow valley. A creek wound its way through the bottom, and it was likely the Crows would be looking to water their ponies. The Lakota would arrange themselves along the ridge on one side of the valley, and when the Crows dismounted, they would charge.

It was as good a plan as any, and Slow felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. He hoped his medicine was strong, and that all would go well. The ridge was studded with clumps of brush, and the Lakota warriors broke up into small groups, using the brush for cover so they would not have to dismount. They wanted to be ready to charge at a moment’s notice.

The gray pony sensed Slow’s nervousness and kept tossing its stiff mane and pawing the ground with its hooves. The boy leaned forward to pat it on the neck and whisper in its ear, trying to calm it. He kept one eye on the mouth of the valley, holding his breath and waiting for his first glimpse of the enemy.

It wasn’t long before the first Crow appeared, moving cautiously, swiveling his head to examine the ridge, looking for any hint of trouble. Slow licked his lips and took a deep breath. For a moment, he could swear the Crow was looking right at him. It looked almost as if the Crow’s eyes were staring right through him.

But the enemy warrior soon shifted his gaze. When he was satisfied there was no one about, he turned and called over his shoulder, then nudged his horse toward some cottonwoods along the creek. Several more Crows soon appeared, followed by another bunch, and finally the entire Crow war party had made its entrance.

Slow was watching Sitting Bull, waiting for some sign that it was time to move, but it didn’t come. Sitting Bull, like the other warriors, was waiting for Good-Voiced Elk to make the decision. It was his war party, and even though Lakota warriors fought as individuals, it was just common courtesy to let the leader give the signal.

“Hurry up,” Slow whispered. The gray was getting more skittish by the moment, and Slow himself was ready to burst. Finally, when he could stand it no more, he kicked the gray and charged into the open, shouting at the top of his lungs. He had jumped the gun, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

Far below, the Crows heard his solitary shriek. They watched for several seconds. But the sudden ripple of war cries along the ridge, followed by the explosive appearance of nearly two dozen Lakota warriors, galvanized them.

The Crows scattered, some sprinting back the way they had come, some standing their ground as the Lakota charged downhill. Slow’s gray was fast, and its burden was light, so he was far out in front. He turned once to see where the others were, realized that they were far behind him, but didn’t pull up. Instead, he urged the gray to go even faster. Again he shouted, the war cry making his throat raw. It sounded shrill and tiny to his own ears, and for a second he wondered whether the Crows would laugh at him.

He brandished his coup stick overhead, kicking the gray pony again and again, using a leather quirt to wring every last bit of speed from the charging pony. One Crow warrior dismounted. He was armed with a bow, and Slow saw him notch an arrow as he moved away from his mount. Slow closed in on him so fast that he never had time to aim. Reaching out with the coup stick, Slow rapped the Crow on the shoulder and shouted, “This one is mine! I have struck the enemy!” The gray slammed into the dismounted warrior, knocking him backward as the arrow sailed harmlessly away. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion now. The hum of the bowstring seemed to last forever. The whoosh of air from the Crow’s lungs sounded like floodwater at spring thaw.

Slow turned to look over his shoulder and saw other Lakota closing in on the prostrate Crow. The enemy warrior was trying to get to his feet, but three Lakota leaped from their horses in unison, swarmed over the Crow, and battered him senseless with war clubs.

The howling of the Lakota filled the valley, and the rest of the Crows turned their horses and started to run as the Lakota thundered after them. Here and there, the sharp crack of an old rifle punctuated the incessant war cries of the attackers, and clouds of gray-white smoke from the gunpowder drifted just above the tall grass. As Slow turned his pony to follow, he caught its pungent scent in his flared nostrils.

His heart was still pounding heavily, and he looked at his chest for a moment as if expecting the organ to burst through his skin. He patted his chest once with an open palm, then spread his fingers. He could feel his heart hammering, but he wasn’t afraid. Not now. He was elated, and he let out another high-pitched whoop.

The Crows never stopped. The momentum of the Lakota was irresistible, and for more than thirty miles, the two groups thundered across the plains. Now and then, the Crows would turn to launch a dozen arrows, fire a few bullets, and shake their fists. The Lakota easily dodged the arrows, fired at such long range, and the marksmanship of the Crows suffered because they were on horseback.

It was late afternoon before the weary Lakota finally allowed their enemies to retreat in peace. They pulled up and watched the Crows vanish over the next ridge, leaving only a cloud of dust to mark their passage.

Slow, soaked with sweat and grinning from ear to ear, was swept from his horse by Sitting Bull, who squeezed him in his arms for a moment, then held him at arm’s length. “That was a very foolish
thing to do,” he said. Then he smiled. He raised a hand overhead and cut loose with one final triumphant war cry. The other Lakota warriors gathered around father and son. Sitting Bull announced, “Today my son, Jumping Badger, has counted his first coup.” He reached up to pull an eagle feather from his hair and placed it on Slow’s head, tying it in place with strands of his son’s coal-black hair.

Yellowstone River Valley
1845

A
LL THE WAY HOME,
Slow kept thinking about what he had accomplished. That Sitting Bull had scolded him, called him a foolish boy, said he was reckless and that he could have gotten himself wounded or killed, did little to dampen his enthusiasm.

He knew he should have been more careful, but he also knew that Sitting Bull wasn’t really angry with him. His father was proud, and late at night, he listened while Sitting Bull told the story of his coup, each time refining it, adjusting the details, stopping occasionally to listen to the other warriors add what they had seen. It seemed almost as if Sitting Bull were practicing for something, trying to get the story just right, leaving nothing out but adding nothing that was not true.

During the day, though, nothing had changed. Slow still had the responsibilities of a boy.

Sometimes, especially when the others were resting and he had to tend to the horses, or stand guard on a distant hilltop with one of the other young men, he would grow resentful. It didn’t seem right, somehow, that he should still be treated like a stripling. He was a warrior now, and everyone knew it. Or at least everyone in the war party knew it.

But customs had an imperative of their own, and being the youngest warrior in the war party, he had the duties that went with his status. The weight of hundreds of years of tradition was threatening to squash him flat, squeeze all the joy out of his wonderful achievement. He was almost numb with boredom, his eyes drooping from exhaustion, his joints sore from lack of proper rest.

He consoled himself with the thought that there would be other war parties, and he would not always be the tail of the buffalo. One day—and he knew it wouldn’t be long—he would be the horns; he would call warriors to follow him instead of sneaking away from camp like a puppy to follow someone else. He would be the one to light the war pipe, the one to raise it to
Wakantanka,
the first to smoke it. It wasn’t much comfort, but for the time being, it was all he had.

By the time the camp’s tipis finally came into view, Slow felt as if his arms were made of lead. His whole body seemed too heavy to manage, and he wondered if he would ever again have the strength to climb onto the back of his pony. All he wanted now was to curl up in the buffalo robes and go to sleep. If he slept for a week, that would
be all right with him. The entire war party, anxious to see their families, began to push their mounts a little harder now, reaching for one last burst of energy.

There would be a celebration, because they had been successful. They had killed five of the hated Crows, and they had lost none of their own men. They had a few new horses—just a handful—pitiful profit, it seemed, to show for so long and hard a week. But Slow knew that that was the way it went. Sometimes you came home empty-handed. Sometimes, too, someone didn’t come home at all. Those were always the worst times, when the families sang death songs until you thought your heart would split open like a gourd.

Slow had heard the terrible wailing of a heartbroken mother more than once in his short life, and it never failed to tear at his gut like sharp claws. At such times, he would bury himself like a baby in the buffalo robes, cover his ears with his palms, and sing to himself—anything to drown out the mournful howl. But it never worked. Always he could hear the sound, even through the flesh and bones covering his ears. Once, not so long ago, the mourners had been his own relatives. His mother’s brother had been killed by Pawnee raiders.

This time, at least, he knew he would be able to sleep; all the Lakota warriors were returning safely. When the returning war party reached the edge of the village, people gathered around, the wives and mothers standing on tiptoe, their anxious faces bobbing like corks on a sea of buckskin as they
searched the mounted warriors for a glimpse of their husbands and sons. The children milled around the women, jumping up to see a father or a brother.