Murder at Medicine Lodge (11 page)

Skywalker became angry all over again, for I had said exactly the wrong thing, forgetting entirely that he had taken a blood oath that no more whites would be allowed to enter any territory belonging to us or to our allied Nations. Hawwy's belief that other whites would come, and would do so without fear or regard of the rightful inhabitants, touched a raw nerve. Skywalker's next statement was delivered in a tight voice.

“Take me to the grave.”

He first made medicine over the burial site, chanting in a low voice, this form of medicine meant to keep Buug-lah's spirit wherever white spirits went, and to sanctify the ground containing Buug-lah's remains, making the top part fit again for living beings. That done, he tore apart the marker shovels, handing one to me, keeping the other for himself. It took us awhile to figure out how to fold them down, but once we did, they were remarkably easy to conceal as we strode side by side back toward the camp, stopping briefly at our saddles to hide them away. Then, in a display of total innocence, we went to our beds.

But for the sounds of snoring, the camp was quiet. Only Hears The Wolf had remained awake, and as we approached he asked in a whisper, “Are you two all right?”

“Yes,” Skywalker answered. “Two old friends had a small disagreement. The disagreement has been settled.”

Satisfied, Hears The Wolf flopped down on his bed, snoring almost the instant his head came to rest. Snuggling under my blanket, feeling vastly relieved, every bone in my body felt as if it was melting. My last thought while yawning was, Now all I have to do is save White Bear.

What a conceit!

*   *   *

In the early-morning light—the sky deep shades of pink with a broad stripe of blue just above the horizon—my being the one to save White Bear from anything, struck me as the absurdity it was. Rising from my bed, shaking out the blankets, I very firmly reminded myself that I was simply the tagalong behind Hears The Wolf, Skywalker, and The Cheyenne Robber. That if we could get White Bear out of this current trouble, it would be they, and rightly so, who would receive the credit. But because I loved White Bear, it needn't be said that I wouldn't do whatever I could to clear him of the charge of Buug-lah's brutal death. A death, that I could tell by the slewing of the Blue Jackets' eyes, they were now anxious to report.

There was a problem with that. Hears The Wolf still had possession of their guns and it was still unclear if they were free men or prisoners. This thorny issue changed the mood of the camp. As we all ate our morning meal, gone were the high spirits and camaraderie of the night before. The Blue Jackets, even Hawwy, were wary, on their guard, and sitting clumped together. Billy found himself sitting in the middle, the one link between soldiers and Indians.

Having been born both white and red, Billy was a man torn in half. During the tender years of his life, he had been raised white, but as he grew older and his mother could no longer hide the fact that her son carried Indian blood, she gave him away to an orphan home. He ran away from that place, eventually coming to work for the army. As a scout he learned as much as he could about Kiowas, beginning with the language. Yet fearing he would be rejected again, he ventured no closer than that to his real father's people. During the first days when we were at Medicine Lodge, he continued to believe that because of his white blood, his father's world was closed to him. Troubled on account of this, he counseled privately with Skywalker, their conversations unknown to me until some time later.

But even in the white world, Billy was alone except for his friendship with Hawwy, the only man in that world he had ever known to accept him without question. But that was Hawwy. The man had an immediate and absorbing interest in anyone who crossed his path. In the Territory this was more of a fault than a virtue, and Billy knew right away that his most important responsibility would be to protect Hawwy from himself. He was doing that now, keeping Hawwy firmly in place until he could figure out what was what with The Cheyenne Robber.

Of all of us, The Cheyenne Robber was physically the most formidable. From the outset, the Blue Jackets had been leery of him. Today they had ample reason, for he was in a terrible mood. Being something of a slow thinker, he hated dilemmas, and that morning had presented him with a big one. He really didn't like killing people he'd had fun with, and after the previous night's good time, although regret would not be enough to deter him, he was edgy about maybe having to kill his new friend. Scowling at Little Jonas, his teeth tore at the half-cooked portion of the meat and he glumly chewed, tasting only his own bitterness because of the sorry situation. He was in the midst of another huge bite when Skywalker leaned in, their shoulders touching. Skywalker whispered for a while and then The Cheyenne Robber grunted an agreement.

When they stood, Hears The Wolf and I stood too, the four of us going off to speak privately. We had only gone a pace or two when Skywalker signaled for us to stop. Looking back over our shoulders, The Cheyenne Robber bellowed for Billy. William was already as nervous as a treed bobcat, his eyes so large they looked to be as big as his fists. He was so startled by The Cheyenne Robber's tone that he dropped his portion of cooked meat into the dirt between his crossed legs. As Billy scrambled to his feet, Hawwy moved to stand too. Very quickly Billy placed a hand on Hawwy's shoulder, shoving him back down and muttering to him. Then Billy ran to catch up with us, and without discussion the five of us moved a little farther away.

As Skywalker talked, Hears The Wolf stood to the side, the barrel of his new rifle resting on his shoulder while he watched the Blue Jackets. They in turn watched him, knowing that if any one of them tried to make a dash for the cache of guns, Hears The Wolf would not hesitate to shoot. In this highly charged situation, I concentrated just as hard as I could on everything Skywalker had to say.

“More soldiers will be coming soon.”

“Today?” The Cheyenne Robber asked.

“No,” Skywalker answered with a shake of his head. “Not today.”

“You're certain?”

“Yes.” Skywalker lifted his chin in the direction of the soldiers by the fire. “They know it too. At least, that little nervous one does,” he said, meaning Lieutenant Danny. “He made this thought in an image. I saw many soldiers riding fast.”

“Maybe this is only what he hopes,” The Cheyenne Robber offered.

“Maybe,” Skywalker conceded. “Then again, maybe it's something he was told would happen after a certain amount of time had passed. The other images in his mind made no sense to me, so I can't be sure.”

“What were the other images?” I asked.

Skywalker twisted his mouth to the side as he thought. “One was the very white face of a young woman. She has large front teeth that stick out when she smiles. Then there was a gray ghost like a man. A man still alive to him. They talk.”

“How?” Hears The Wolf blurted.

Skywalker pursed his lips. “On flat smooth material treaty makers make marks on.”

“Pay-paa [paper]?” I yelped.

Skywalker came out of his near daze, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Yes. That's it. Pay-paa. The dead one is alive on markings on the pay-paa. That young chief over there is afraid.”

“I think I'd better find out about that,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And there is something else. Something about Little Jonas.”

The Cheyenne Robber didn't care to hear that. If there was anything bad about Little Jonas, The Cheyenne Robber didn't want to know. He didn't mind about any of the others, especially Sergeant Cullen. For a mean-natured man, Cullen had given up too easily. Rule of thumb: Never trust an enemy warrior who gives up too easily. All this means is that he's tricky. That he has a plan on how to get even. We were all watchful of Cullen and we despised him because of the way he'd kicked his horse for no reason. With every fiber of my being I longed for Skywalker to discern in Sergeant Cullen the guilt for anything. Irritatingly, he kept coming back to Little Jonas.

“Not understanding their language, I don't know what his secret is. I only know he has one, and it's big. Almost as big as him.”

Skywalker began giving instructions to Hears The Wolf and The Cheyenne Robber. “I want you two to go out and look for any signs the storm failed to wash away. Make sure you come back before dark. This is our last night in this place.”

“Good,” The Cheyenne Robber grunted. “I need a bath and the clothes I'm wearing smell so bad I can't get away from myself.”

Hears The Wolf cracked a laugh. “I can't get away from you, either.”

Puckering his lips, flinging himself bodily at his father-in-law, The Cheyenne Robber hollered, “Kiss me!”

Laughing harder, Hears The Wolf fought off the mock attack. Glancing back over my shoulder I saw the effect the high-spirited play was having on the soldiers. Tugging the sleeve of Skywalker's shirt, he looked back and noticed too.

SEVEN

The recent rainstorm had been so powerful that none of us truly believed that Hears The Wolf or The Cheyenne Robber would find any lingering signs, but Skywalker felt it was necessary that they try. Before the storm hit, the hoofprints leading out of the murder site indicated continued travel toward the northwest. As I told you before, Fort Larned lay in that direction and beyond that, the Pawnee.

Before our little council disbanded, The Cheyenne Robber let it be known that he was more than satisfied with blaming the Pawnee.

“It only makes sense,” he'd said.

He turned his handsome face to each of us, a brisk wind throwing back his long hair, sending it sailing away from broad shoulders. When none of us offered a response, his tone became loud and insistent.

“The Pawnee don't like so many enemy nations this close to their villages. And they take great pride in their friendship with the A-me-cans [Americans]. Pawnees don't want the A-me-cans becoming friendly with us, their enemies.”

He looked around again. Not one of us offered a response. I suppose it was because none of us wanted to believe that a man as physically impressive as The Cheyenne Robber could be so dense. But he was, and that has always struck me as a terrible crime against nature, for him to be so beautiful, so wondrously perfect—until he opened his mouth.

“Don't you see?” he cried, becoming exasperated. “Enemy nations making treaties with the Blue Jackets threatened the Pawnee. So they sent spies to Medicine Lodge and those spies mingled among us, looking for a way to make trouble. They caused this trouble by culling out a soldier, then they killed him and left the body to be found.”

Reluctant as I was to point out the one or two glaring flaws in this little theory, nevertheless I forced myself to speak up.

“To begin with,” I said, “we all know that the Pawnee wear their hair in a highly distinctive style, shaved to skin all over the skull except for a braided topknot. How is it possible for a man looking like that to mingle among hundreds of long-haired warriors?”

Baffled, The Cheyenne Robber quickly looked to his relatives. Skywalker's lips twitched, humor lighting up his eyes. Fighting the need to laugh, Hears The Wolf's expression became so pained that he turned his head away. Turning next to Billy didn't do The Cheyenne Robber any good either, for the frontiersman was intently studying something on the ground. Fuming, The Cheyenne Robber turned on me.

“You know,” he said tightly, “sometimes I almost hate you.”

Still trying to validate his theory, he cried, “All right. The Pawnees hid themselves until they saw a chance to make trouble.” He looked at me and sneered. “Only a real warrior would know this, but that's exactly what Pawnees do.” He folded his arms and jutted his strong chin skyward.

Heavily marred though his theory was, it was still a comfort that one of us actually had one. I know I certainly didn't. All I knew of for certain was that Buug-lah had been killed by a single ax wound that cleaved his skull. He had not been scalped but that didn't necessarily prove Indians weren't responsible. Contrary to popular notion, even the army knew during this time that not all Indians took scalps. From what I knew about the life cycle of maggots, I believed that when we found the dead man, he had been dead for about six days. And finally, the valuable horse he'd ridden had been killed by a single shot to the temple. The bullet was lead and its mashed remains rested inside the carry pouch that was tied to my breech-belt.

Now, to me, that dead horse proved beyond any shadow of doubt that no Indian had anything to do with the murder, because no Indian would kill such a valuable animal. Yet, while I knew this to be true, this fact would not be enough to convince the generals, who were more than content to blame White Bear. His turning up in their camp with that stupid bugle was harder proof than anything I might offer on the emotional involvement Indians have with horses. Besides, let us not forget that on account of Major Elliot, the army would have eventually blamed White Bear anyway. I knew this was true because days before he'd ever showed up with that bugle, the generals were already labeling White Bear a troublemaker. They hadn't been able to more than grumble because he was a powerful war chief and he'd committed no crime. But now that Buug-lah had been found so undeniably dead, those generals would happily rush to charge him with murder.

Under ordinary circumstances, neither White Bear nor Lone Wolf would particularly care what the army charged against them. What made this an extraordinary circumstance was the fact that White Bear would stand accused of a violent act when every chief of the Confederacy of Nations had given his solemn word that no violence would be tolerated, and if by some remote chance violence did occur, those same chiefs had guaranteed the army the right to punish any and all offenders.

Now, there was the rub. At the time this promise was made, the only violence anyone considered was perhaps the odd fight resulting from a minor disagreement. Not one chief had considered the remote possibility of a murder or that the army would employ their most favorite means of punishment by hanging. You have no idea how repugnant this form of death is for Indians. Lone Wolf would most certainly go to war before ever handing over one of his own to be hung. And then he would strip White Bear of everything—rank, prestige, Onde privilege—for the crime of pushing him into a war he hadn't been ready to fight. For a man like White Bear, being reduced to nothing and with no hope of future reprieve, would be far worse than being hanged. All of this meant that we needed something to take back to the generals. Something they would not be able to disregard when we claimed White Bear to be innocent. If we could not find that something …