About a mile on west of where they lay, the creek flowed in gently from the north. Between that wide river bend and the bottom of the slope where the seven sprawled on their bellies was cut the gash of a deep ravine that every spring would fill with runoff to feed Frenchman’s Fork. But this was summer, and the rainy season was long behind them. Instead of runoff, what filled the wide, sandy path of that ravine seemed to be the whole of the Cheyenne nation on the march between the willow and alder, plum brush and cottonwood. Ahead and on both sides of the column rode the painted, resplendent warriors atop their prancing ponies, old men and women trundling along on foot among the travois ponies, children and dogs darting here and there and everywhere noisily among the entire procession. On the nearby east bank of the fork, pony boys worked the huge herd.
Shad could see the lust for that herd in the Pawnee’s eyes as he glanced at the others, could see the lust for all that finery of blankets and robes, kettles and clothing. Although they wore pieces of the army uniform and dressed by and large in the white man’s clothing, riding army horses and carrying army weapons, the Pawnee were still Indians who coveted the spoils of war that could be wrenched from their ancient enemy.
“That Tall Bull’s bunch?” whispered Lieutenant Harvey.
Luther North nodded, a finger to his lips for quiet. “Can’t be no one else, can it, Mr. Sweete?”
“I figure the lieutenant here guessed right.”
“What a stroke of good fortune, fellas,” North continued. “For some time now the army’s figured it was Tall Bull’s band of Dog Soldiers that’s been causing all the trouble after Sandy Forsyth’s bunch made Roman Nose a good Indian at Beecher Island.”
“That bunch is Cheyenne, all right,” Shad replied. “Damn—but that’s one big shitteree of ’em too, boys.”
Less than two hundred yards away, the entire procession wound past the hilltop unawares, many of the ponies burdened with fresh, bloodied buffalo meat shot and butchered that very day. The seven observers fell quiet for long minutes as they peered down on the colorful, noisy cavalcade, until they saw the vanguard move out of sight among the brush as the village neared the mouth of the fork.
“Look at ’em, Mr. Sweete, and tell me if that bunch don’t look about as done in as Carr’s outfit is.”
“You ain’t far from the mark, Cap’n. Tall Bull’s village ain’t had it any easier than Carr’s cavalry—not with women and young’uns to tote along, what with all their lodges and truck.”
North turned with a grim smile crossing his crusted face. “I’ve swallowed enough dust to last a lifetime, but—we’ve got some news to carry to General Carr. Let’s get.”
“While the getting is good, fellas,” Sweete agreed. “I got a bad feeling that some of those bucks down there might just want to ride on up here and take a look-see around the country … like we done.”
North signed his Pawnee back from the top of the hill, and together the seven trotted downhill to the grazing horses. Taking up their reins, the outriders walked their animals downstream more than fifty yards before mounting.
“You care to lead out, Mr. Sweete?” The tension and excitement of the evening’s momentous discovery was clearly etched on the soldier’s face as his eyes burned into the old trapper’s.
As much as he didn’t care for Lute North, Shad had to admit the major’s younger brother was acting downright civil about things. “Don’t mind if I do,” Sweete replied, turning to the five trackers and making some quick hand talk.
“What was that he told them, Cap’n?” asked Lieutenant Harvey.
North snorted as Sweete swung his horse around and put it into a quick lope that had worked itself into a hard gallop within ten yards. “That old scout just told them Pawnee they’d better lock themselves down on their ponies—because they were in for one fast ride!”
20
FOR THREE NIGHTS High-Backed Bull had cursed himself for not scraping together the courage to turn around and ride back among the Shaved-Heads, taking the scalp of the one he had shot in their raid on the soldier camp.
Not that any of the other Dog Soldiers found fault with him. Indeed, Porcupine and the handful of the others in on the horse raid all sang Bull’s praises for charging alone among the enemy to count coup. Bull realized Porcupine knew the truth: that the young warrior had been less interested in counting coup on the Shaved-Heads than he was intent on assuring himself that the tall man he had seen during the fight among the sandhills was not his father.
Still, the truth is ofttimes an elusive thing, likely dressed in the clothing of an impersonator and often hiding behind the paint of a warrior’s mask.
