Winter Rain (24 page)

Hardly buffalo country.

Yet just yesterday the Pawnee had run across a small herd of buffalo and succeeded in dropping more than thirty in a surround. Then Cody did just what had earned him a reputation in supplying the army and the railroad with meat: on his new buckskin pony the young scout dashed off on a half-mile run, dropping thirty-six bulls and cows all by his lonesome. From that moment on, Cody was big medicine with North’s trackers.

“Why you figure we haven’t found any travois sign yet, Shad?” asked the young scout as he settled down beside the older plainsman at their evening fire.

Sweete stared into his cup of coffee and finished chewing the mouthful of buffalo loin contemplatively. “Could be there ain’t no villages on the move. Only war parties.”

“What’s the chance of that?” Cody asked, sweeping some of his long blond hair back from his bare cheek. “Pretty damned slim, you ask me.”

He nodded. “Damn slim, Bill. Or, you told me I had to put money on it—I’d say they got their village hid away someplace, far enough away from where they been raiding that we ain’t run across sign of it.”

“What happens if we keep up the pressure on the war parties?”

“They’ll split up until there ain’t much of a trail to follow.”

“Long as we got one trail to follow, Shad—we got ’em. Right?”

“You know well as me, Cody: we only need one trail. We follow it—we’ll find the rest eventual,” Shad answered.

The young scout smiled as he leaned forward to cut a slice of the buffalo loin staked over the coals in Sweete’s fire pit. “And when we find the rest of the war parties—we’ll sure as hell find Carr’s village of Dog Soldiers for him.”

Here in the
first days of the Moon of Cherries Blackening, High-Backed Bull found himself disgusted with Tall Bull and the way the man yearned after the white woman they had captured many suns ago.

Since then the Dog Soldier chief had lusted after the captive, keeping her to himself as his private concubine. Each night when he was done with her, Tall Bull threw the woman from the lodge, where the camp dogs were immediately drawn to her—likely drawn by the smell of the blood from her beatings, perhaps the earthy fragrance to her after Tall Bull’s coupling.

Bull almost felt sorry for the woman as night after night he watched her crawl away naked from the chief’s lodge, her small bundle of bloodied clothing clutched beneath
an arm, doing her best to fend off the curious camp dogs.

So the disgust he first felt for Tall Bull had grown to revulsion. Not because the chief was a man who claimed his carnal rights to the white prisoner—but because Tall Bull was slowly losing interest in making war on the whites. Because of the woman, it seemed Tall Bull thought of little else but coupling. Not of attacking. Not of stealing horses and the spotted buffalo. Not of killing the whites. Every day he appeared to think of his loins a little more.

Though she was white, Bull could not bring himself to blame the woman. He cursed any man, especially a war chief, who thought of little else but coupling with a white person. That thought alone stoked Bull’s inner rage. More and more it took increasing effort to keep from hating the white part of himself.

“You are always cleaning that gun,” Porcupine said. “Come with us, Bull.”

He looked up from cleaning the big Walker revolver to the handful of older warriors standing in a crescent around him. Bull gazed down the barrel, finding satisfaction in the gleam of metal in evening’s fading light.

“Where do we go?” he asked almost absently.

“To talk to Tall Bull,” said a war chief of great reputation. “You will want to hear what we have to say.”

“Does White Horse grow weary of this waiting too?”

The war chief started to turn away, saying, “Come with us, High-Backed Bull. And you will hear me speak what burns in your own heart.”

They found Tall Bull and took the chief to White Horse’s lodge, where they quickly smoked a pipe without great ceremony.

“It is time we spoke of making more attacks,” White Horse said directly.

Tall Bull’s eyes flicked slowly from man to man around the circle. Yet he said nothing.

“This summer heat makes you grow restless, eh?” Wolf Friend asked his question of White Horse.

Bull watched for a sign from the face of Tall Bull, then that of his closest companion—Wolf Friend, one who would do his best to support the chief.

Bad Heart was hardly a friend to any man who did not want to make war on the white man. He and Bull were the two who stayed most loyal to Porcupine across the seasons. Bad Heart sneered as he asked, “Why does Wolf Friend ask this of White Horse? Does he think White Horse grows restless because he does not have a white woman to copulate with?”

The group laughed together, a little uneasily as they passed around a water gourd. Outside, the lodge skins were rolled up; beyond, a group of children hurried by in the deepening dark of twilight while the moon rose yellow as a brass rifle cartridge in the east.

“White Horse is right,” agreed Plenty of Bull Meat. “We dare not let up on the white man now.”

“Aiyeee!
It is for us to keep attacking until the white man and his kind are driven out of this country for good,” Yellow Nose said.

“What of the soldiers?” prodded Tall Sioux. “We go in search of the white man’s settlements to attack … then the soldiers come after us. No—it is not the earthscratchers we must attack now. I say we must go after the soldiers who come marching winter after winter to attack our villages.”

“Tall Sioux speaks true,” said White Man’s Ladder with a cautious tone. “Soldiers search out our villages, butchering our women and children who cannot escape. Remember Black Kettle’s people?”

“Black Kettle ate the scraps of food the white man didn’t want to throw to his dogs,” Porcupine muttered angrily.

“This is true! And now Black Kettle is dead!” Bull
roared angrily. “Killed by the Yellow Hair on the Washita—because he believed in the word of the white man.”

“Yes,” Porcupine agreed. “Because Black Kettle thought he could have peace with the white man!”

“These old men who want peace … the ones who act like old women,” White Horse growled, “their villages are filled with those who want to make peace with the white man. I say it is good that the soldiers catch and destroy them!”

Bull’s voice rose. “We should not cry for any who die, for any who are caught by the soldiers—for they were stupid not to fight back with the last ounce of their strength!”

Tall Bull raised his hand for silence, ready to speak at last. “Perhaps High-Backed Bull’s words are right. We cannot go on wandering this prairie, trying to avoid the white man. Instead, as you say—we must attack … and attack again. Track down every one of his outlying settlements. Kill the white people squatting there on our buffalo ground.”

“Still, what of the great smoking horses that move back and forth across this land once grazed freely by the buffalo?” Bullet Proof asked.

“Because of the smoking horses, the herds have been cut in half,” Feathered Bear moaned with a wag of his head. “No more will the buffalo cross the iron tracks the white man has planted for his smoking horse.”

“It is as if the white man has laid down two lines on the prairie,” said Red Cherries. He pointed an arm. “One north of us in the land of the Lakota. One south toward the reservations. Now the herds can no longer move freely.”

“
We
no longer move freely across the land of our fathers!” White Horse growled.

“This was the land of our fathers at one time,” said
Yellow Nose. “Will we be known as the sons who gave away this land of our ancestors to the white man?”

At that moment on the far side of camp, there arose a commotion. Muffled shouts were heard coming from the east, along with the metallic barking of dogs.

“Let our words rest now where our hearts lie,” said White Horse. “We must not be the last generation to ride free across this prairie. We must fight, Tall Bull.”

“Yes!” agreed Porcupine. “While other bands may run away, it remains for us to carry on the fight.”

Energized, his blood running hot with talk of the coming struggle, Bull said, “While other bands tuck their tails like scared rabbits, running away to hide on their reservations—we Dog Soldiers must take the fight into the lap of the white man!”

“When?” asked Heavy Furred Wolf. “When will we ride again!”

Tall Bull looked at the one who had asked the all-important question. “From the mood of this council, I see no reason to delay.”

“Tomorrow!” White Horse replied.

“Yes—let us ride tomorrow,” Tall Sioux echoed.

The growing commotion outside the lodge drew their attention once more.

As did most of the others in that circle, Tall Bull turned to the two young boys running up to the council lodge at full speed. He asked them, “What is this?”

“Our scouts!” huffed one of the two, out of breath. “They ride back on the run.”

“On the run?” Tall Bull asked.

“They bring word of the white man.”

“I think we will attack soon!” Wolf Friend cried in happiness.

Tall Bull grabbed one of the boys by his shoulders. “What is this news of the white man? Where?”

“Pile of Bones saw marching soldiers.”

“Soldiers?” White Horse asked, crowding close upon the boy now.

His young head bobbed as he caught his breath from his run. “Pile of Bones saw them. Many. He says there are ten-times-ten for each finger on one hand.”

White Horse looked around the circle of warriors. “Surely these are the same soldiers who have dogged our trail for more than a moon.”

Bull grinned, spreading his arms wide as he roared joyously, “It is good, my friends! These swallows follow the hawk too closely. Now the hawk will turn and destroy the sparrows in one bite!”

“Attack!” shouted White Horse.

“Aiyeee!
We kill them all!” Tall Bull roared.

Giddy with blood lust, Bull growled, “Swallow every last one of the sparrows and spit out their bones!”

G
RITTA STARED AT
the water crock, unsure that her prayers had really been answered. Not quite ready to believe the Negro had turned his back on the crock and left the tent without it.

Yet there it stood on the table, next to the tin bowl that he filled with warm water for her every morning. Beside the bowl lay the dingy scrap of coarse linen and a sliver of black soap she was expected to use in bathing herself. By itself the heat of this land was enough to make a person stink, not to mention the stench left on her skin by the grunting beast who had dressed and left only minutes ago. Almost immediately the Negro had come in with the steaming crock, poured some hot water in the tin bowl, set out the linen and soap, then hurried off without taking the crock.

Outside she could hear the big man’s voice booming in laughter, hear the clatter of fork and knife on his plate as
he went about his breakfast. This same ritual he practiced every morning, seated at his table in the shade of the tent awning after he had completed his foul business with her. Such a creature of habit, this one.

She stared at the crock.

Somewhere inside, a small voice echoed, dimly calling out to her in a voice Gritta did not recognize. Not at first. Yet it was the voice of a woman calling to her, a voice somehow familiar. Tantalizing her with the promise of release from woe: a means to leave behind this mortal, earthly veil.

“Don’t wait. You can’t afford to tarry a minute longer.”

Whirling about, Gritta expected to find someone chiding her. But found no one there in the tent with her.

Loud noises swallowed up the small voice and invaded her small, private world. Horses whinnied and stamped out there, just beyond these tent walls. Something deep within her, something that clung on to the familiar routine of each day now reminded Gritta that the men would be breaking camp shortly.

“You must act now—if you are going to act at all,” scolded the tiny voice inside her head.

She glanced over her shoulder again, found no one there, and shuddered to think it was her disembodied soul speaking to her. Ordering. Demanding.

“The crock. Go to the crock.”

Glancing one last time at the gap in the tent flaps, Gritta willfully stepped over to them and straightened the canvas so that they overlapped, just as she did whenever she sponged herself of the mornings before leaving the tent and boarding the ambulance to ride out the day. She went back to the table where the bowl and crock sat, then stared down at her hands. They had gone soft, not feeling like her hands at all. Marveling at their smooth texture, she ran one over the other, then pushed up the loose sleeve on the left
arm and gripped that wrist tightly in the vise of her right hand. The white skin slowly bulged as the blood trapped in the veins, gone bluish beneath her skin—so pale now after so, so long without the sun. They did not look as if they were her hands.

Perhaps it would not hurt her—since these were not her hands any longer.

“The crock. Take the crock.”

“Yes,” aloud she answered obediently, releasing her wrist and seizing the tall crock between her trembling hands.

“Break it!”

Bringing it over her head, she flung it down against the edge of the table, clenching her eyes at the explosion as shards and slivers rained across her, warm water splattered, steamy, drenching the front of her open dressing gown. The sudden flush of moist heat felt welcome, reassuring as she fell to her knees in the muddy puddle there beneath the tiny table and found what she was instructed to find.

“A big one. Do it right the first time!”

Savagely dragging the gleaming shard of crockery across her wrist once, she gazed down at the sundered flesh beading with the bright red blood.

“Again! Cut it—you must hurry! Cut it—again, again!”

Once more, twice, then three times more she raked the shard across her inner wrist. Shiny, gleaming, warm liquid made her swoon as she crouched there on her knees, drenched with crimson as the clamor suddenly ballooned around her.