Sacred Is the Wind (42 page)

“Die!” Jubal shrieked. He raised his hands, dropping his empty gun, his palms outstretched, reaching out for the mercy he had never shown, the very quality hatred had leached from him long ago. The stone spear point took the colonel chest-high, shattering his sternum, ripping through lungs, crushing his spine as the shaft splintered and broke. The cry from the lips of the impaled man was inhuman, a hideous wail of terror, the wail of a doomed soul plunging into never-ending nightmare. Jubal clawed at the length of wood jutting from his chest. Hung backward off his horse, he hit the ground, and pain exploded on impact. Bragg wriggled and moaned and gibbered as the pain engulfed him. He no longer understood what had happened. He knew only pain, and one thing more, the faces of the dead, the innocents of Warbonnet Creek who in his mind's eye had come to circle him, to watch him die. And to harry him along on his way to hell.

Silence again. Captain Henry Morbitzer stood and dusted himself off and wondered why the war chief had spared him, and in the same thought process realized Panther Burn had never intended to take the lives of any of the soldiers. He had not come to kill. But to die. Henry Morbitzer held up a hand, ordering his men to stand ready. But now that he had the attention again of his troopers and the war chief was no more than fifty feet away astride a bloodied, winded horse, the captain could not bring himself to issue the order to open fire. Suddenly the taste of battle was bitter in his mouth. Panther Burn had ridden through them. He had killed the last great enemy of the Cheyenne. And he had counted coup.

“Sir?” a trooper asked, carbine ready.

“No,” said Henry Morbitzer. “The first man who fires, I'll personally take the lash to him. Can't you see? It's over.” He holstered his Colt revolver. “Over.”

The Cheyenne waited where they had watched. Panther Burn felt the horse shudder beneath him. But he did not dismount. Not now, not yet. He saw Michael move toward him, but Panther Burn shook his head no, and his son stopped, face contorted with grief as he retreated back to Kate. A wind sprang up as if announcing the arrival of the one Panther Burn waited for. He saw Rebecca riding toward him through the last of the mist as the wind carried off the diaphanous strands of gold. The troopers parted, allowing Rebecca Blue Thrush to pass among them unmolested. Panther Burn kept his eyes on his wife, his back to the settlement as if scorning the future he had refused to be a part of. The earth was red beneath him. His life was seeping from the dozen wounds, his arm hung limp, his shattered legs somehow managed to grip his horse's flanks. He held himself upright, refusing to succumb. Yet. Rebecca reined her horse alongside his. Her eyes were dry, only her heart wept at the sight of him. She leaned down and took the reins from his loosened grip. The leather traces were slick crimson. Rebecca glanced at her son and smiled reassuringly, then she led her mortally wounded husband off to the forest, toward the hills and beyond to the mountains where the wind never ceases.

No one moved to stop them.

Epilogue

F
irst silence. Then departure. Then children to race through sunlight, returning to their play. The dust from their exertions soon masked the bloody ground and their laughter lasted longer than the reverberations of gunshots or thunder in the hills. Children are the balm of history; in the young, the world heals itself and begins anew. Michael watched them from where he sat in the shade on the porch of the clinic. He felt … nothing. Only numbness. Kate emerged from inside, shaded her eyes, and looked toward the hills for Rebecca.

“She'll be back. After she has buried him in a place only she will know of,” said Michael. He reached out and took Kate's hand in his. He looked out at the settlement and the houses scattered over Lame Deer Valley. “One day there will be a Cheyenne town on Cheyenne land and there will be no more ration Fridays.”

“He died for them,” Kate said, looking at the children. One of the boys pretended to be a fierce war chief, others were chasing him. The boy war chief kept falling down but he refused to be killed. Each time he fell, the boy rose again. “And we will live for them,” said Michael.

“Don't ever let me go,” Kate gently replied. Michael smiled. He had no intention of ever doing that. The children playing nearby noticed them, and recognizing Michael, ran over to him and crowded onto the steps leading up to the porch. Jonah Yellow Leg, Susan, and Sara Pretty on Top, and half a dozen other children crowded around the couple. Jonah was the spokesman, though several of the boys were older than he.

“Tell us about him, will you, Michael?”

“Your papa,” Sara explained.

“Tell us about Panther Burn,” another boy said. Michael remembered he was the one who had refused to die.

Like a legend.

Michael glanced around at Kate, who smiled, squeezed his hand, then stepped toward the door. “I think I can find a jar of peppermints,” she said, and darted inside. Michael hesitated, lifted his gaze to the hills, to the trail his mother and father had taken and down which only Rebecca would return.
Yes, let it begin here
.

“My father, Panther Burn,” Michael began. He sat on the top step and the children drew close on every side. “Let me tell you the story of Panther Burn.” Michael stared into each intent, innocent face.

“It began with a hawk.…”

Author's Note

I
cannot get the Northern Cheyenne out of my system. My wife Patricia and I arrived at the St. Labre Indian Mission in the summer of 1973. We came to teach and wound up being taught. Echoes of my time among the Morning Star people continue to haunt my work. I make no claim to be an authority on the Northern Cheyenne. And I beg pardon for any inaccuracies found in this novel. Although this is a work of fiction, two of the main incidents in these pages actually occurred; I have, however, altered the location as well as the names of the participants to suit my story.

On November 29, 1864, a force of seven hundred Colorado Volunteers led by Colonel John Chivington attacked a village of Southern Cheyenne encamped along Sand Creek. These Cheyenne not only had lived in peace with the white settlers, but their chief, Black Kettle, had even seen to it that an American flag flew over the village. The attack came at morning. It was sudden and brutal. By the time the militia had finished, one hundred thirty-seven Cheyenne were dead. Only twenty-eight were men; the rest were Cheyenne women and children whose bodies were mutilated beyond recognition, although portions of Indian anatomy wound up as tobacco pouches and hat bands for sale in Denver. The survivors of the bloodbath, those Southern Cheyenne who managed to gain the safety of the surrounding forest, headed North and joined with the Northern Cheyenne in Montana Territory. The Sand Creek massacre is one of the darkest entries in the annals of the history of the West. It resulted in the full-scale uprising of the Cheyenne nation and hostilities lasting almost twenty-five years.

Panther Burn and Zachariah Scalpcane are based on actual Cheyenne braves. In the fall of 1890, two men, Head Chief and John Young Mule, ran afoul of the law. By this time the Cheyenne were concentrated on their reservation in south-central Montana. The local military authority threatened to cut off rations to the tribe unless the braves surrendered. Head Chief sent word he would meet the U.S. Army in battle in the valley of Lame Deer, near Lame Deer, Montana, a reservation town. Head Chief and John Young Mule were determined to die as befitting the warriors of old. Head Chief claimed that, if the U.S. cavalry arranged itself in ranks across the valley, he would ride through their midst. On Friday, September 13, 1890, the last of the Cheyenne warriors rode down from the hills to wage war. John Young Mule had his horse shot out from under him. He continued to charge on foot until he fell, riddled with bullets. Head Chief, though dying, fulfilled his promise and rode through the soldiers before tumbling from horseback. Head Chief and John Young Mule were buried on a place called Squaw Hill. Both battle and burial site were about twenty miles from where Patricia and I lived and worked. I have walked the hilltop where the bones of Head Chief and John Young Mule bleach in the sun. There this book was born, there I heard God speak in the distant thunder, there I learned in my own poor way how sacred is the wind.

About the Author

Kerry Newcomb was born in Milford, Connecticut, but had the good fortune to be raised in Texas. He has served in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and taught at the St. Labre Mission School on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana, and holds a master's of fine arts degree in theater from Trinity University. Newcomb has written plays, film scripts, commercials, and liturgical dramas, and is the author of over thirty novels. He lives with his family in Fort Worth, Texas.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The quotations on pages 100–101 are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Copyright © 1981 by Kerry Newcomb

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

978-1-4804-7892-3

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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EBOOKS BY KERRY NEWCOMB

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