Sacred Is the Wind (2 page)

“Our horses are fast,” Knows His Gun piped up. “Our arrows fly swift and straight.” He was as eager as any of them to make war against the Crow.

Little Coyote shook his head in resignation and started toward the horses while High Walker and Knows His Gun disguised the remains of the camp. Panther Burn fell into step, taking his rifle from Little Coyote but keeping to one side as if unwilling to walk behind even a friend. He respected Little Coyote and preferred the company of this quiet young man. But despite his love for friend and father, Panther Burn's heart yearned to prove his worth to Yellow Eagle, to all the people of the Spirit Mountain Cheyenne. He longed to wear the buffalo hat of the Dog Soldier and be accorded the respect due the members of this society. Little Coyote read his friend's thoughts but said nothing. He tossed a blanket over his horse and tied his rawhide bridle around the mare's pink-flecked muzzle and proceeded with Panther Burn to gather the other ponies.

“I too would build my lodge among the Dog Soldiers,” Little Coyote revealed at last. “It is just that I am one who can wait. This, my friend, is a good day.” He led three horses now while Panther Burn had bridled the other three. “And I am not ashamed to be a hunter.”

Panther Burn paused. His pinto, a sturdy brown-and-white-patched stallion, nudged him forward, eager along with the other two mares to continue abreast of the horses trailing Little Coyote. Panther Burn lifted his eyes to the treetops as a dark-plumed crescent shadow swept up from the ponderosas, climbing in long lazy spirals to the sky, casting its shadow over the unforgiving earth.

“Ah, my friend, there are hunters,” said Panther Burn, “and there are … hawks.”

•   •   • 

Panther Burn balanced his Hawken rifle across the back of the pinto and pulled on the rawhide shirt his mother had stitched for him. Crescent Moon had labored many hours over the shirt, stitching the Morning Star symbol on the left, over the heart and the stark red-beaded design of fire on the right. It was a shirt befitting a warrior, not a hunter, and Panther Burn had been loath to wear it even at the risk of disappointing Crescent Moon, but a brisk north wind changed his mind and he donned the soft rawhide shirt. The wind reminded him that this month was also called by some
punu-ma-es-sini
, the light snow moon. For three hours now he and Little Coyote had been riding together, leaving Knows His Gun and High Walker to hunt on the opposite slope of the ridge. Half an hour ago Panther Burn had cut buffalo sign and with Little Coyote followed the tracks in silence. The scattering of cloven hoofprints took them through a dry wash and up a long arduous climb along a gully that forced Panther Burn to take the lead and Little Coyote to follow. The surefooted pinto beneath Panther Burn chose his steps carefully. The animal had been bred to the rocky slopes, perhaps had climbed these same ridges, before Panther Burn had caught him and turned the animal from a wild mustang into a half-wild mustang. Good graze at the top of the draw, Panther Burn thought to himself as the pinto quickened its stride; good graze and water luring the animals into hurrying up such a winding broken path as this. Savage-looking chunks of broken granite jutted out from beneath a veneer of topsoil. Brush against one of these and lose a chunk of flesh from your leg, strip it to the bone. Step wrong and a ledge could break away, sending horse and rider tumbling down the gully, leaving both broken, buried in gravel, carrion for wolves. The pinto angled to the left. Panther Burn almost lost his balance, his fingers tightened on the reins, his legs firmly clasped the stocky frame beneath him. The animal sidestepped again, leaped a break in the granite, and trotted up the remaining few feet to bring Panther Burn out on a broad plateau carpeted with tall yellow grasses dotted with tender emerald shoots. The land gradually sloped into a broad fertile valley. Spring storms had washed life into the valley. Though patches of snow still clung to the shadows lining the battlements better than ten miles across from where the two braves stood, the green shoots clinging to life here by the gully increased in gay abundance, spreading outward in an avalanche of newborn life. Despite the chill north wind stirring the dry yellow stalks of yesterday, spring had come to the land between the ridges. Tall stately pines masked the apron of land beneath the granite battlements. Bitterroot formed pools of pink and white flowers throughout the valley. And dotting the tableau, serenely oblivious to the hunters on the ridge, a herd of buffalo wandered over the rich feeding ground—one older male, a younger bull, half a dozen cows, and four calves.

Neither brave spoke, their glances to one another conveying all the information they needed. Panther Burn had first discovered the tracks that had brought them to the valley. It was for him to make the kill. Holding his rifle by the rawhide-wrapped stock he gestured toward the older bull. Little Coyote nodded. They would approach the grazing animal from either side, Little Coyote to head the animal toward Panther Burn, whose responsibility it was to make the kill. Panther Burn was grateful that Little Coyote had suggested leaving the packhorses in the care of High Walker and Knows His Gun. It made two less horses to have to worry about. Buffalo are a peculiar lot. Oftentimes an entire herd will stand placidly feeding while all around them hunters fire their guns, dropping animal after animal. Another day and the slightest commotion might set them off in a thunderous onslaught of hooves and slashing horns, trampling everything in their path. Those days were gone, Panther Burn ruefully reminded himself.
ve-ho-e
, white men, had brought an end to the vast herds sweeping the plains, white men who killed for sport, who took the hides and left the prairies choking on the stench of rotted meat.
ve-ho-e
had made the rifle Panther Burn carried. And though it shot further than a bow and perhaps killed quicker, he wondered if the price might not be too high for such a weapon. For the rifle was not of the people. Such thoughts confused him. And now was not the time to think of right or wrong.

The herd below ignored them as the Cheyenne braves slowly descended the slope and reached the floor of the valley. Panther Burn tried to swallow, his mouth was dry as granite shale. One of the calves had ceased its playing, stopped to stare at the approaching riders. To the calf's poor eyesight, the hunters appeared to be two more buffalo albeit strangely shaped ones. The young bull was better than a hundred yards away, cropping the green shoots sprouting up through old growth around a pool of melted snow. As Little Coyote made his way around opposite his companion and began to double back, the wind shifted, carrying his scent to the old bull. Six feet tall from hoof to humped shoulder blades, ten feet long from horn to tail, to see its great shaggy head rise suddenly and a great and terrible bellow issue from its throat was enough to strike fear into the bravest heart.

The bull lunged forward, veered toward Panther Burn, recognized the blocked route and lowered his head, charging forward, eyes blazing, slaver on its lips. The move was unexpected. So was the bison's speed. Panther Burn jerked on the reins and the pinto danced to one side as the bull lunged past, its curved horns narrowly missing the pinto. Little Coyote galloped past in pursuit. Gravel and dust spattered Panther Burn's face as he wheeled the pinto and took off after Little Coyote. Alerted by the bull, the rest of the herd fled the meadow, heading toward the shelter of the rocky battlements to the north. Panther Burn eased the hammer down on the percussion cap and whipped his pinto into a reckless gallop that gradually closed the distance on Little Coyote and the buffalo bull. He watched as Little Coyote raised his rifle. The bison veered to the left, its horns slicing toward Little Coyote's mare. The Cheyenne was forced to fire his rifle while yanking on the reins to guide his mount out of the path of those raking horns. Flame, powder smoke, and lead ball spouted harmlessly over the bison's hump. The mare almost lost its footing, forcing Little Coyote to rein up to keep them both from tumbling to the ground.

Panther Burn was a blur of motion passing his friend at a dead gallop. The dark mane lashed his cheeks as he leaned forward, riding low and close to the mustang. The bison was fast. The sturdy little pinto was faster. But time was running out. The bull was leading Panther Burn toward a rock-strewn section of the meadow that would make pursuit even more treacherous. The pinto seemed to sense the urgency, and calling up a reserve of strength, pulled slowly forward, inching up until horse and rider were alongside the bull. Panther Burn raised his rifle, gripping the reins with his left hand, aiming the Hawken with his right. But he held his fire, waiting, daring a broken neck so as not to waste his shot. He had seen the animal's cunning and resisted the urge to fire. Suddenly the animal veered to the right, trying the same trick it had used on Little Coyote. Panther Burn yanked on the reins and the pinto veered in step with the buffalo. For a moment, stallion and bull were parallel, charging at breakneck speed across the mountain meadow. For a single moment, flashing hooves and slashing horn, sinew, flesh, and shaggy fur, horse and buffalo and man were a single entity, unstoppable and one, in wild and deadly flight upon the plain. Death or life in a matter of inches, in split-second timing, the difference between thought and instinct.

The Cheyenne sighted behind the shoulder, hesitated to allow the bull its stride as its hooves pounded forward, rib cage extended, leaving unprotected and vulnerable the bison's swiftly hammering heart.

Panther Burn fired.

•   •   • 

Memories slither out from shadows, memories glare with serpent's eyes from the dreaming embers. Only the keening drums toll the notes of tragedy. Tap-tap-tapping like some beating heart in the throes of sleep, moving into endless sleep.
Let me walk the spirit trail with my friends, All-Father, hear me!
Panther Burn looked up at his mother. She might be real, or a phantom of the night come to trap him. He had been lured into a trap before.

“I bring living water.” She spoke in a soft tone. She stared into her son's agonized gaze. His fault … his fault … his most grievous fault. She wanted to offer her solace, but knew there was no comfort for him and did not wish to humiliate him by trying. Crescent Moon bowed and stepped out of the tipi, leaving behind the clay jar she had carried up from Crazy Wolf Spring. Panther Burn crawled over to the jar and cupped a handful of water to his mouth, cupped another and washed his face, the icy cold water bracing in its effect. It made him feel better. And feeling better returned his pride. What had he done save make war on the enemies of his village? What wrong had he committed? Was he not of the Morning Star people, the blood in his veins, Cheyenne blood? Enough of torture. Let the elders decide his fate. He had done what must be done. He would not hang his head and walk the path of shame, not for his father or any other chief of the village. The drums continued, signaling that the elders were still in council. So be it. He stood. Sucking in a draft of air, he recognized the smell of cooked buffalo meat. Memories of the hunt returned, and more than the hunt … the ride back. He would never forget the ride back.

Around the flagging campfire, Knows His Gun leaped the flames, loosing an ear-splitting war whoop as he touched earth, leaped again over the cookfire. Landing, he stumbled so that the brown bottle of whiskey he held slipped from his grasp. High Walker reacted with an agility that belied his squat stocky frame. His hand shot out and snared the bottle in midair, and continuing in a single motion, swept up to tilt the bottle to his lips. He took three swallows as Knows His Gun recovered his balance and lurched toward his companion.

“You'll drink it all, thief!”

Little Coyote and Panther Burn glanced up from the travois they had built to haul the meat to the village. They watched as Knows His Gun leaped for the whiskey, as High Walker knocked him back and stole another mouthful of the raw, throat-scorching brew.

“It seems the trader who visited our village during the last moon brought more than blankets and gunpowder,” Panther Burn muttered.

“Knows His Gun will have visions in the morning.” Little Coyote chuckled.

“Just so long as they are visions of him doing his share of the work.” Panther Burn finished tying off the leather fastenings that bound the lodge poles into the woven pattern of a frame and glanced up at the black cliffs overhead, great brooding battlements of wind-gouged granite blotting out half the sky.

“At least the light of our fire is hidden from half the hills.”

“You are like the
ve-ho-e
trader who weighs his gunpowder, his grain, the glass beads which the women prize so. My friend, you weigh your thoughts and trade them for trouble, only trouble, always trouble.”

“We have seen Crow sign these days,” Panther Burn replied. “In the presence of his enemies, only a fool says, ‘I am safe, there is nothing that can harm me.'” He glanced at Little Coyote, wondering if his friend had taken offense. The words had been spoken with unintended harshness. It was not Little Coyote's fault that Yellow Eagle had ordered them out on the hunt. The two men continued in silence to stare into the light of the campfire where High Walker and Knows His Gun were locked in desperate struggle over the remnants of the whiskey. Know His Gun was astride High Walker's chest, both hands locked on the bottle that High Walker refused to release, laughing all the while. Panther Burn reached down and wrested the bottle from them both. He threw the bottle beyond the circle of light, sending it crashing among the rocky debris at the base of the cliff.

“Ahhhh!” Knows His Gun staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the edge of the circle, then looked back at Panther Burn. “You had no right.”

High Walker tried to stand but his own brother shoved him back, shook his head in warning. Knows His Gun wiped a forearm across his features. His hair hung unbraided and clung in sweaty strands to his cheeks. He wore a breechcloth and nothing more. His nakedness wreaked of spilled whiskey. Knows His Gun blinked to clear his vision as Panther Burn knelt by his own blankets and began arranging his Hawken rifle, shirt, and other gear. Knows His Gun straightened, his small but muscular physique swelled with false courage.