Cheyenne Captive Read online

  She looked over her shoulder uncertainly, and hurried to walk close by his side as if she sought his protection.

  “Do Indians treat their women like that?”

  “You are not one of our women,” he retorted, gripping her hand as they walked. “Need I keep reminding you that you are only a captive slave? That means you cannot pick and choose your man as a Cheyenne woman would. Besides, our people value chastity, and yours is not assured since you dress like a whore and wear no protective rope!”

  Her face flamed and he felt a twinge of guilt at this urge to lash out and hurt her. He did not need a nihpihist to know no man had touched Summer Sky. He had made his decision. If she would not have him, he did not want her around as a constant reminder. He would try to send her back to her people. Someday, in a faraway place, this Boston, a white man with much gold and a fine, silken bed would lay claim to what Iron Knife hungered for....

  They were at the big Council tepee now. A fire blazed in the center, and the sides were pulled up so that those not of the Council might still witness what was to take place from the perimeter.

  “Are they all chiefs?” Summer whispered.

  “No, only those four old men over there,” he gestured. “Each of the ten bands of the Cheyenne have four chiefs, plus there are four great chiefs overall. They are all elected to office for ten years, although sometimes they will be asked to serve a second term.”

  Iron Knife led her over and seated her at the edge of the circle where all might gaze at her. There were only men in the Council tent, but women and children peered beneath the raised side to follow the action. The four old chiefs sat in front of the fire. Drums beat a steady rhythm, calling the warriors in. Angry Wolf and those of yesterday’s raid stood to one side, their arms folded resolutely across their chests. Two Arrows and Lance Bearer caught their cousin’s eye, and nodded reassuringly. On the outlying fringe of the crowd, Gray Dove returned his stare and smiled archly.

  He strode into the firelight, and stood there a long moment, knowing he looked magnificent in his finest buckskin shirt decorated with dyed porcupine quills. His black hair gleamed in the light, and the brass cavalry button and the bone whistle reflected the fire. He knew mens’ eyes watched him in admiration because he had counted many coup in battle, and was one of the best hunters in the village.

  Next time, he would be elected leader of his warrior band, Hotamitaniu, the Dog Soldiers, or even chief. He felt the hot glances of the maidens, more than one of whom had hinted that if he should wish to tie ponies in front of her father’s tepee, they would not be turned down.

  Then he squatted to one side, and waited for an old man to stand and announce the proceedings. He glanced at the four old chiefs. Two of them he could not be sure of. Old Blue Eagle, resplendent in his scalp shirt, was a friend to Angry Wolf. Clouds Above was his own uncle, and he wore a fine Pendleton blanket and a necklace of bear claws.

  With much ceremony, the pipe was filled with tobacco and kinnikinnik, the ground bark of red willow. Solemnly, it was offered to the sky, the ground, and the four directions as the chant was intoned. “Spirit Above, smoke. Spirit Below, smoke. Four cardinal points, smoke.”

  Then the pipe was passed around the circle following the sun’s path, being passed right to left. After that, the discussion began.

  First, the old men voiced an opinion or told what they knew, next the middle-aged warriors, finally, the younger ones. Later, when a decision had been reached, the camp crier would ride in a circle about the camp from east to south, to west, then north telling what decision the Council had made. The war chiefs, each a leader of a warrior bands such as the Dog Soldiers, the Fox, the Bowstrings, stood listening intently. Whatever the Council decided, it would be up to the leaders of those warrior groups to carry out the tribe’s wishes.

  Iron Knife’s mind had wandered, watching Summer. Now he came back to the present because Two Arrows was speaking. “... we had been hunting and were led to the scene by shouts and confusion. My brother, Lance Bearer, my cousin, Iron Knife, and I, came upon Angry Wolf and his friends after they had already attacked the stage. There was much firewater being drunk. The blond captive is the only one left alive from the stage.”

  Clouds Above glared at Angry Wolf. “You and your friends dare to break Crookedhand Fitzpatrick’s treaty that we signed seven years ago at Fort Laramie?”

  Angry Wolf strode to the center of the circle. “Are our warriors like women that they fear the whites? I fear them not, and I care nothing for their treaty!”

  He gestured. “We are becoming soft. Once on a raid such as this, no one would have called us to account like naughty children! With honor, we would have painted our faces black, and ridden into camp with the scalps hanging from a pole to show there had been a great victory with no loss of life. There would have been much feasting and dancing of the scalp dance.”

  “Once long ago I felt the same,” Clouds Above nodded, “but a chief looks first to the safety of his people, not to his own personal glory.” He paused, and his voice seemed far away. “It is an uneasy peace, this, and sometimes broken, but the Cheyenne must try not to break it. That is what the whites want so they will have an excuse to destroy us. They are as plentiful as grains of sand. Forever, they push toward us, wanting more land for their plows to destroy, forever pushing us back so they can search for the yellow metal.”

  The old chief shook his head. “I see the future clearly and am powerless to stop it. My own grandsons will not ride free as I do now. Always, the whites will push and push until there is nowhere left to go!”

  “Then, I say we fight!” Angry Wolf paced the circle. “Let us fight the white man!”

  One of the other old chiefs, Scalp Taker, shook his head. “You speak with the fire and foolishness of youth. We all know why you hate the white man so much, and with good reason. Nine years ago, the whites brought the dreaded disease they call cholera into our midst. Almost half the Cheyenne people died and you were left with no family at all. We are powerless against the white peoples’ sickness.”

  Clouds Above nodded. “Hear me say this, and remember it well: We have less to fear from the white man’s guns than from his firewater and disease. When our people are destroyed, when they have lost their proud heritage completely, these two things will have done more to wipe us out than all the soldiers’ bullets!”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

  “Oh, great chiefs, hear me!” Iron Knife stood up. “I have earned the right to speak in this Council even though white blood runs in my veins. Have I not counted many coup on the enemies from the time I returned after my stay in the white town? From the time I was but thirteen until all the tribes gathered to sign the Great Treaty, I fought the white men as they fought me, neither giving quarter. But once we signed the treaty, I laid aside my anger, my thirst for revenge because it was important for the good of the People.”

  He paused and reached up to touch his earring. “Only once since then, when Sumner’s soldiers attacked us, have I fought them. I say, let us live as best we can under the treaty, giving the Bluecoats no excuse to sweep down on us and drive us farther west until they push us off into that Great Ocean beyond Cheyenne territory.”

  He paused and gazed at Angry Wolf. “This is a great warrior and a good Dog Soldier, but there is a point where bravery must give way to discretion. The white man’s firewater makes even brave men do foolish things. Let us lay aside our personal differences for the sake of the People.”

  There was a murmur of approval. He knew most of the camp gossiped about the bad blood between them over Gray Dove.

  “But we have played a great joke,” Angry Wolf injected. “We left arrows and bead work from our hated enemies, the Pawnees, at the stage wreck so the army would chase them. And the rain has washed out our ponies’ track so we cannot be followed. The Pawnees break the treaty often enough when they aren’t scouting for the soldiers, let them take the blame for this, too!”

 
Many of the others nodded in agreement. The Pawnees were a fierce and hated enemy. They killed War Bonnet, caused the death of Texanna and many other Cheyenne in raids over the years, and most of all, they had stolen the Cheyenne’s sacred Medicine Arrows. That had been many years ago and the People thought of nothing else but getting the Arrows back. The friendly Sioux had gotten two of the four returned to the Cheyenne, but the Pawnee still had the others. The People made new ones, of course, but they seemed to lack the magic of the originals. The People were convinced their luck would continue to go downhill until the other two ancient and sacred Medicine Arrows were returned.

  Old Blue Eagle studied the blond captive. “What of this woman? Did not Angry Wolf capture her?”

  Iron Knife nodded. “He captured her, but I fought him and won her. She asks to be returned to her people.”

  The old chief looked at him incredulously. “You know we cannot do that! Even now, the soldiers hunt the Pawnee for this raid on the stagecoach! Should this white woman be freed to go back to the fort, she not only would tell them the Cheyenne did it, she might even be able to lead them back here to our camp, endangering our women and children!”

  “Angry Wolf should have given thought to all this before he filled his belly with firewater,” Iron Knife said dryly. “The white woman tells me her father is very rich and important, and will pay much to get her returned.”

  Clouds Above shook his head. “That is even worse! If she is indeed the daughter of an important chief, the Bluecoats will not rest until they have found her, bringing death to our camp!”

  “The woman no doubt lies,” Iron Knife said quickly. “I do not think her father is a chief. Many saw the way she was dressed when she was taken off the stage. She is only a toy for men to play with in the white man’s dance hall. No one will probably come looking for her at all.”

  Old Blue Eagle studied Summer keenly. “I think we should kill her,” he said thoughtfully, “so there will be no chance the soldiers will find out. After all, she is the only one alive from the stage.”

  Scalp Taker injected, “Maybe we should trade her off to the Comanche to the south! They will enjoy her awhile and then sell her across the border. Mexicans would pay much for such a pale beauty for their whorehouses!”

  Angry Wolf grinned wickedly. “I like Scalp Taker’s idea. Let’s trade her to the Comanche!”

  There was a murmur of assent. Iron Knife’s hand tightened on his knife. “I—I would never disobey the Council,” he said grudgingly, “but my heart beats for this woman.” He hesitated, not wanting to admit his weakness in front of the whole tribe. “My manhood cannot stand the thought that any other man might mount her.”

  He looked deep into Summer’s eyes, wondering if she realized he was begging for her life even though he spoke the soft musical words of the Cheyenne.

  She had been sitting there demure, her eyes downcast as he had instructed her. But perhaps she saw the desperation in his eyes, and was now aware that things were going badly. Whatever made her do it, she suddenly scrambled to her feet and faced the four old chiefs.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying!” she raged, “but I defy you! You hear? I defy you!”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. It was unthinkable that a captive slave should speak in front of Council. Iron Knife stood frozen to the spot, horrified at her effrontery. But still, she paced and waved her arms and shouted, “How dare you think you can decide my fate! Who do you think you are! I will not sit here quietly and let you do as you will!”

  She was magnificent, Iron Knife thought admiringly, She might be sealing her doom, but this Council had never been treated to such a show of spirit from such a lovely, enraged woman.

  With sinking heart, he grabbed her and yanked her back down to her seat. The four old chiefs turned inquiring eyes to him and he hesitated a moment, then translated word for word. “She defies us?” asked Old Blue Eagle.

  “She defies you.” Iron Knife shrugged. He might have lied about what she said, but there were a few in the crowd who spoke English. Anyway, there was no denying the intent behind the flashing eyes and the angry, soft mouth.

  “We will now deliberate,” Clouds Above announced. The four old chiefs pulled into a small group and talked for what seemed an eternity in quiet whispers.

  Finally, Clouds Above stood and announced solemnly, “Angry Wolf and his friends have been guilty of breaking the treaty by attacking the stage. However, because firewater was involved, also because he thought to blame the hated Pawnee and we do not think the soldiers will come here, we will be lenient.”

  He gestured toward the chiefs of each warrior group. “We declare tuhkayats, punishment will be inflicted for disobeying. The chiefs of the soldier bands will whip the guilty ones through the camp so that all may see the Cheyenne intends to stand by this treaty.”

  He turned and took a long look at Iron Knife and then at Summer. “The white girl can never return to her people for reasons already given, but we will not kill her. It would be a shame to waste such bravery as she has when she could produce such fiery chiefs.”

  He smiled ever so slightly at Iron Knife. “If my nephew yearns for this she-bobcat, the Council feels he has fought for and won her fairly. So, even though we think he will regret taking this woman to warm his bed, we give her to him to be his slave forever!”

  Chapter Three

  Summer couldn’t understand the old man’s words, but she knew a decision was being announced. She looked about the Council tepee and saw the nodding heads, the murmur of discussion among the men. Then the gathering broke up, some of the crowd leaving, some gathering in small groups, talking.

  Iron Knife came over and took her hand, pulling her roughly to her feet. “You little fool!” he hissed, “it is unheard of to create a scene in front of the Council! It’s a wonder they didn’t vote to kill you!”

  Summer let him pull her along the dark path from the meeting. Her arm began to throb and her head hurt. They passed a pretty Indian girl by a campfire, and she gave Summer such a murderous look that Summer shivered, wondering what she had done to merit such hate.

  “Who was that?” she queried, trying to catch up to his long steps. It was hard to keep up. She felt weak and very tired.

  He shrugged. “Only Gray Dove, an Arapaho girl. The Arapahos have been friends of the Cheyenne for many years and often camp with us.”

  He offered no further explanation. Summer’s thoughts blurred as she struggled to keep up and she paused.

  He turned and looked down at her. She could see the concern on his face by the light of the campfires. “You are ill?”

  “No,” she lied, not wanting anything to interfere with her goal. “When does the Council say I can go back to Fort Smith?”

  Wordlessly, he put one big hand on her flushed forehead and frowned. Then he swiftly lifted her and carried her back to the tepee. He sat her gently on the buffalo robe bed and again put his hand on her forehead.

  “When am I being sent back?” she persisted.

  “Not right away,” he murmured, not looking into her eyes. “Anyway, you are ill and couldn’t travel all that distance now”.

  She nodded and did not press for more details. It was true. She did not feel well at all. She felt dizzy and her head pounded angrily.

  He took her small face in his big hands and stared into her eyes. “You skin feels like fire,” he muttered, “and your face is flushed! Let me see your arm!”

  Dutifully, Summer held out her injured right arm and he unwrapped it and stared at the knife cut. She saw the look of concern cross his face, and understood why as she studied the arm herself. The wound looked raw and swollen and crooked red lines snaked from it across her white skin.

  She looked up at him, suddenly frightened. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “No, not so bad,” he answered soothingly. “I will go get the medicine man again and give him many presents. He will have spells and much magic to cure this.”

  He left
the tepee and Summer tried not to look at the wound. If only she were back in her own four-poster bed in the big mansion on her father’s estate. Dr. Morgan, the renowned surgeon, would be making a house call and solicitous maids would be scurrying about, bringing her tea, fluffing her down pillows.

  She felt very, very warm now and the arm throbbed. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip and she lay down on the robe. It occurred to her that she might die here and no one back home would ever know what had happened to her.

  No, she shook her blond head stubbornly, she wasn’t going to die, she was going to live. When the Indians took her back to the fort she would be a dutiful daughter, and do as her father had ordered—at least until the scandal in Boston died down a little....

  Iron Knife returned, interrupting her thoughts and bringing with him the venerable old man carrying charms and herbs in a bag made of skunk skin.

  Summer wondered for a moment if she should allow the old man to treat her again as he had this morning, and then realized she didn’t have much choice. He seemed to be the only help available and she was feeling worse by the minute. The medicine man examined her arm, shook his head, and said something in his foreign tongue to Iron Knife. Iron Knife answered in Cheyenne, seemingly insistent. She watched the old man as he took little bunches of grasses and herbs and burned them in the fire pit, filling the air with a hazy, sweet smell. Then he began a singsong chant, shaking a gourd rattle all the while over Summer’s arm.

  Summer looked at Iron Knife questioningly.

  “It is all right.” He nodded. “Usually, the rites of purification and ceremony would take longer, and he would require a sweat lodge to be built near the river for you, but. . .”

  His voice trailed off, and he looked away. Summer caught the implication. Her condition was too serious to delay for the usual ceremonies.