The Holy Warrior (13 page)

“He knew... I was your brother.” Knox struggled to speak. “Said... he’d have some... fun with me. Tied me up... used me for target practice.” A spasm of pain doubled him up, and he clawed at the arrows. Chris held him down until the pain passed; then Knox said, “Gettin’ dark, Chris... I’m goin’ out... looks like.”

Chris could only hold him, knowing there was no hope.

“Chris... don’t fret about me... not your fault... promise.”

Hoping to quiet his brother, Chris mumbled, “I—I promise.”

The next words came so faintly that Chris had to bend low to catch them. “Tell Mother... I’m glad... we had our prayer.”

“I will, Knox. Promise.”

But Knox didn’t seem to hear. “I’ll be... waiting for you, Chris... waitin’.” And with a sigh, Knox went limp. Seeing he was gone, Chris slowly lowered his brother to the ground. Madness glittered in his eyes when he looked up at the two men standing silently by. “We will have our women back, my brothers.”

Four Dog said grimly. “My woman is dead—but Red Ghost will pay!”

“They leave a broad trail,” Sixkiller spoke up. “And they will be back in their village before we can catch them.”

A cry of rage ran through the warriors, most of them ready to mount and make straight for the Pawnee village, but Four Dog stopped them. His anger had not caused him to lose his head. “They will be waiting,” he shrewdly observed, “—and they have rifle guns they have taken.”

“I will have my woman!” Running Wolf snapped.

“And I will have my wife and son,” Chris said. “But Four Dog is wise. The Pawnees are many and we are but few—and they expect us. Have you not said many times, Running Wolf, it is a fool who does what his enemy expects?”

“That was the head speaking! My heart demands revenge!”

A sudden revelation hit Chris, chilling his blinding rage. Speaking with words as cold as ice, he said, “Four Dog—you are war chief, and I will follow you. But will you hear a thought that has come to me?”

“Let Bear Killer speak.”

“Surely Red Ghost knows we will come—but he thinks we will follow blindly, carelessly. It may be that he will move
slowly, spreading his band into two or three parts. When we come, he will close on the main body, and the others will close in and crush us.”

Four Dog nodded. “That is so. But if we try to get ahead of them and catch them in a trap, the first thing they will do is kill our women.”

Running Wolf looked at Chris. “What is your thought, my brother?”

“Go to the Pawnee camp now,” Chris said. “There will be few braves there to watch the women and horses. We will take them captive, and when Red Ghost comes, we will make a trade—his women for ours.”

A yelp of pleasure went up from Sixkiller and the other young braves, but Four Dog frowned. “Our horses are too tired. We can never get to the camp before them.”

“We will ride them until they die. Then we will run.” The simple declaration from the white man was met with a murmur of approval. He smiled and added, “Some of us will not make it, but I will attack the Pawnees if I am alone!”

A shout went up, and every warrior resolved not to be one who could not make the difficult journey. “We will go!” they shouted, and Four Dog nodded his approval.

“Two must stay to care for the dead,” Running Wolf told them. There was a cry of protest from the two he named, but he was adamant. “What shall we do with your brother, Bear Killer?”

Chris turned and went to kneel beside Knox’s body. He reached out and held one hand lightly on the still cheek.
Knox... my baby brother...
He paid no heed to the tears running down his cheeks, for he was engulfed with many memories of his brother....
always underfoot when we were growing up. But growin’ up, you knew me better than anyone else... believed in me when no one else did...
His mind wandered back to a creek in Kentucky, where the two of them had been swimming one blistering hot summer. Knox had leaped to knock a cottonmouth aside that was ready to bury
his fangs in Chris’s leg. He thought of the times around their table at home, and of sitting for long hours at church beside him.
I’m sure gonna miss you...

Awkwardly he stroked his brother’s still face, then took a deep breath and got to his feet with a set determination. “Bury him beside the big oak that overlooks the river,” he replied, mounting the horse that Running Wolf held. He did not look back as they rode out of the post.

The Sioux prepared the bodies of their dead—Four Dog’s wife and two other women—wrapping them in blankets for the journey to the sacred burial ground on a high plateau near their village. They dug a grave near the oak beside the river, put the body of Knox in it, then carefully covered it over and destroyed all signs of digging so that neither wolves nor enemies could find the body.

A tall brave named Big Hand looked at the spot, and wondered aloud, “White men strange. They put their dead in cold, dark hole—when they could do as The People—lift them high in the sky for the sun and the stars to touch.”

They searched the ruins for anything of value and found a case of rifles and a supply of powder and shot. When all was done, they put the bodies in a travois and started back to their village.

For several hours all was quiet in the yard of the trading post, and when dusk veiled the sky, a nervous buck stepped into the clearing, sniffing the air cautiously. He paused, ready to bolt, but curiosity caused him to come closer—close enough to peer through the broken gates. Nothing stirred, but the smell of death was still strong, so he snorted and fled the scene in that beautiful gait that is half run and half flight—leaving the darkness behind him.

CHAPTER NINE

DEATH AT HIGH NOON

The raiding party flew the distance to the enemy camp at full speed, but by the time they got to the Pawnee grounds, it was obvious to the small group that had scouted ahead that they were too late for a surprise attack. Four Dog, who was among them, insisted that they pull back at once. “Red Ghost will be waiting now. We are too few for an attack.” He sent Sixkiller to bring up the full strength of the tribe, and now there was nothing to do but wait.

Running Wolf looked bitterly in the direction of the camp. “The gods have struck us.” He was not usually so cynical—normally he preferred to live close to the earth, letting life flow over him as it would. But not now. “I will not live and let this pass.”

“Nor I, my brother,” Chris answered. He looked at Four Dog and asked, “What does the war chief of the Sioux say?”

Four Dog answered slowly. He was a scarred veteran of many raids, and he knew the Pawnees better than any of them—especially Red Ghost. He sat there, a solid shape in the sun-speckled glade, alternately trying and rejecting plans, in the same manner as he would try different arrowheads for a shaft. His eyes were half shut as the war chief swayed slightly from side to side. At last he opened them and gave a short chopping motion with his hand. “The Pawnees will expect us to attack. They will have their scouts out already, and we cannot hope to get through their lines. But when would they expect us?”

“At night—or at first light” was Running Wolf’s immediate response.

“So—we must attack when the sun is high! That is the soft underbelly of Red Ghost!”

Running Wolf pondered the idea silently, balancing the risk against the chance they would succeed. His eyes glittered as he nodded agreement. “It is so. All night the scouts will be thick around the village. But most will go back during the day to sleep. Even so,” he warned, “we are too many to hide for long—and the Pawnees are coiled and ready to strike!”

“You will stay here for one week, Running Wolf,” Four Dog said swiftly. “Hide by day, and by night try to learn all you can about the village. In one week I will have every warrior in the tribe ready to attack at the old camp below the bend in the river. You know it?”

“Yes.”

“The Pawnees will not be expecting that. In seven days, meet us there.” His thin lips twisted into a grotesque smile, and he lowered his voice, “We will find the soft underbelly of Red Ghost! Listen...”

He began to speak rapidly, relishing the looks of surprise that crossed the faces of the other two men. The old war chief’s tactics had always been considered a bit unusual; while most Sioux in his position relied on brute force, Four Dog was noted for his cunning, his ability to catch his enemies off guard. Now he glowed with excitement, with expectancy, as he elaborated on his plan—his masterpiece. If it worked, he would be celebrated for many generations to come.

When he finished, there was a smile even on the stolid face of Running Wolf, and Chris said as he got up, “Four Dog is a great chief. We will feed the Pawnees to the wolves!” He turned and soon the band left, leaving Running Wolf alone in the glade.

Seven days later Four Dog led the band down the path that ran from the river. The thunder of the horses’ hooves stirred a sleeping fox that lifted his head, sniffed, and faded into the
timber. Only a few skeletal frameworks marked the site of an abandoned village; the forest had closed in quickly, covering the bare earth with grasses, and draping the broken pottery with vines and fallen leaves.

Four Dog pulled his horse up, and even as he did, a voice came from the edge of the timber. Running Wolf appeared, joining the braves as they dismounted.

“You come on time,” Running Wolf said with a smile.

“And you are alive,” Chris answered, relieved. “It occurred to me that your scalp might be drying on Red Ghost’s belt.”

“The gods were good.” Running Wolf nodded seriously and regarded the braves who stood nearby, waiting. For a long moment he stared at them, then nodded. “It is strange to see The People looking so much like their enemies. If I had met you last night, Little Crow, you would be feeding the wolves right now!”

Little Crow gave a muffled howl and raised his rifle in a quick gesture. “I am a Pawnee! Beware!”

A laugh rippled over the group, and Running Wolf moved among the warriors, speaking a word to one, slapping another on the back. When he came to stand beside Four Dog, he said with approval in his voice, “It is well. We will fool them for a short time with your foolish plan!”

The plan was crazy; yet its sheer audacity was their only hope of success. Four Dog had done his work well—over and over, day after day, he had drilled his plan into his warriors.

“We will make ourselves look like Pawnees,” Four Dog had said. “If we try to make a headlong attack, they will be ready—so we will come at them one at a time, dressed as they are!

“Running Wolf will know the ground. We will split up and move into the spots he says, in groups of two or three. We will wait until the night scouts of the enemy return to the village, until the sun is high in the sky. Then we will attack them—at the time when they will least expect it!”

“How do we get close to the camp?” asked Sixkiller.

“I will move toward the camp—very slowly, with my rifle tied on a thong behind me. I will stop and look off—or sit down and look at my foot. Most of the warriors will be either off hunting or sleeping after their night watch—only squaws and children will see us.”

“What about the rest of us?” Little Crow demanded.

“You will have to choose your moment—but do not hurry and do not come close together.”

“Sooner or later we’ll be seen.”

“Yes—but we must hope one of us will be close enough to kill the Pawnees that took our women! We must get them back! We must avenge their blood!”

Now as they prepared to take their places, Four Dog asked, “Running Wolf—where is the best place for Bear Killer to be? He must have many loaded rifles, for he never misses. Those that go in will only have spears and knives—until our brother can kill those that rush with the weapons from their lodges.”

“I know a place,” Running Wolf nodded, then stopped. “But how will he tell our warriors from the Pawnees? How can we keep from killing each other? In the heat of battle, what if I see Tall Deer and take him for the Pawnee warrior he looks like?”

“We have thought of a way,” Four Dog said. “Every man has a red headband. As soon as we are discovered, we all put them on. Kill everything that moves—without a red headband.” The light of battle was already in Four Dog’s eyes. “Come, my children. We will slay the wife-stealers! Watch for me when the sun touches the highest part of the sky.”

Running Wolf stooped and made a rough sketch on the ground, pointing out the best places for the braves to hide. One by one they melted into the woods until all but Chris were gone. “We will stay together,” Running Wolf told him. “I will help carry the rifles.”

Following Running Wolf through the woods was like trailing a ghost. More than once, they had to elude the enemy patrols that passed close by.
It’ll be a miracle,
Chris thought,
if at least one Sioux doesn’t get flushed out by the Pawnees.
His ears strained for the sound of a cry of alarm or of a shot, but they reached the spot that Running Wolf had selected without hearing anything out of the ordinary.

Settling down in the shelter of a grove of cottonwoods, neither of them said a word until dawn. As soon as the east began to turn gray, Running Wolf said, “Now,” and led the way out of the trees. It was still too dark to see the village as Running Wolf continued on to a gully. Chris followed closely, the rifles bumping the back of his legs, as the Sioux turned and went along the gully for about three hundred yards. “This is your place—stay under those bushes until the attack, then rise up and shoot. You can see the lodges,” he whispered. In the gathering light, Chris could see the shadowy outlines of the camp not two hundred yards away.

“Red Ghost’s lodge is the one with a white buffalo hide over the door. Try to get him first.”

With that he was gone, and Chris scrambled down the gully, which was about five feet deep and filled with gooseberry bushes that scratched his face as he ducked under them. He worked quickly, loading the rifles with great precision and carefully positioning them under the bushes. Taking one last look around, he ducked under the heavy bushes.