The Holy Warrior Page 7

  “Got to get some kind of fire or you’ll freeze to death,” he said huskily. He pulled the Green River knife and began skinning the huge bear. He had never dressed a bear, but he observed grimly, “Just like a coon—only bigger.” The knife was razor sharp, and despite his awkwardness he managed to get the pelt free, then turned the fur side up on the snow and carefully moved the wounded man on top of it. He pulled the excess over the man, and saw that the young warrior had finally passed out.

  “Lost a heap of blood,” he muttered. “Got to get him warm and get something into him.”

  He slashed away at the carcass of the bear and came up with what looked like the liver. Next he pulled the bearskin back and lifted the Indian’s head up. The eyes opened and he accepted the raw meat without a word, chewing it methodically, all the while watching the white man intently.

  Chris stayed awake all night, keeping up the fire and giving the wounded man a bite of liver from time to time, plus frequent drinks from the river. By morning he could tell that the Indian was becoming feverish.

  He knew very little about wounds, but all day long he sat nearby, trying to keep the Indian from throwing off his covering in his delirium. Chris was afraid the brave would tear his stitches out as he thrashed wildly around, so he checked the groin wound often to be sure the bleeding hadn’t started. By nightfall, he was exhausted, but he dared not sleep for fear that the injured man would need him. Consequently, he spent another night watching the restless brave. The next day was little better—until that afternoon when the eyes of the Sioux opened and he said something in a faint voice.

  “What’s that?” Chris asked urgently, but the eyes closed and he said no more. But that seemed to be a turning point, for the fever broke, and although Chris slept fitfully that night, when he woke up the next morning, the Indian was staring at him. He had crawled out of his bearskin and was sitting against a tree, his face pale but his eyes sharp, not dulled with fever.

  “Well!” Chris grunted, pulling himself up stiffly. “Guess you decided not to die.”

  “Not die.”

  The words hit Chris like a blow, and he cried, “You speak English!”

  “Little bit.”

  Chris stared at him, then pointed to himself. “Chris,” he said, with a questioning look at the other.

  “Running Wolf.”

  “Well, now, here we are chattering like a couple of fox squirrels.” The young man’s silence told Chris that the Indian brave had not understood the words, much less the humor. For months Chris had not spoken to a soul, and his speech seemed rusty. He covered his awkwardness by going to the carcass and hacking off two large chunks of meat. He rammed the meat on a sharp stick and pushed it over the glowing coals of the fire. Soon the two were eating the roasted bear.

  They ate silently until finally Running Wolf paused and looked across at the white man. “You not kill me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “You done nothing to me.”

  The simplicity of the answer puzzled the Indian, and he remained silent for a long time.

  Running Wolf said no more, and soon he went to sleep, but it was not a fevered sleep. All day long he napped, waking only long enough to eat and to drink a great deal of water. He tried to stand, but found he could not walk. He stared down at the stitching in his leg and said with just a trace of humor in his black eyes, “Chris sew good—like squaw.”

  “Better be glad I do. It’s all that kept your spirit inside. You’d be in the spirit land, Running Wolf, if this squaw hadn’t sewed you up like an old moccasin!”

  “Yes.” The word carried no emotion, but there was a glint in his eyes as Running Wolf spoke.

  Two days went by and each day the Sioux got stronger, but he was still too sore to walk. During that time, the two men carried on a conversation of sorts, with Chris picking up many words of Sioux. Running Wolf would listen for long periods as the tall white man spoke. The brave said little, only staring at Chris as if trying to understand.

  On the fourth morning Chris awoke to find himself ringed by a silent circle of Sioux warriors. He glanced toward the tree where his rifle had rested, to find it in the hands of a short brave. Running Wolf was awake, silently watching the reaction of the white man.

  Tales of Sioux cruelty to captives flashed through Chris’s mind, and he got to his feet, pulling the Green River knife from his belt. He was determined to die fighting. The short brave with the rifle said something to Running Wolf, and laughed roughly at the answer. He raised the rifle and Chris looked down the bore.

  The others fell silent as Chris stood there, holding the knife. He was not afraid of death, though he had feared torture, as any man would. He looked over the bore at the man holding the rifle and spoke to him evenly. “You lost your medicine, Injun.”

  A puzzled look spread across the brave’s face, and he glanced at Running Wolf, who spoke a few words in translation. He answered and lowered the rifle slightly. Running Wolf said, “This Four Dog. He say how you know him lose medicine?”

  Chris reached over, opened the pouch and took out the bone charm. When he held it up a mutter of surprise arose from the group; Four Dog gave a sharp cry, abruptly shifting the rifle to point at the ground.

  “I could have killed you, Four Dog, when you killed the deer by the fork in the spring. I let you live, but I took your medicine. Now it is yours again.”

  Four Dog stared at him, then swept the circle with a quick glance. He reached out slowly and took the charm. He said something with a tone of wonder, and Running Wolf smiled—the first time he had done so since Chris pulled him from under the bear.

  “You are big medicine!” Running Wolf translated. “First, you save life of the son of Chief of The People. You kill the Father Spirit...” (Chris later learned that this was their name for the great grizzly) “... and take big medicine away from war chief.” Running Wolf said something in Sioux and a mutter of agreement went up. Several of the group began cutting saplings to make a travois to carry the wounded man as Four Dog and Running Wolf engaged in earnest discussion, looking often toward Chris, who stood silently by.

  Finally the travois was made and tied to one of the horses that had been brought in from the woods. Running Wolf hobbled over to it, got in, and looked up at Chris. “You come with us.” When he saw the question in the blue eyes of the tall man, he added, “You one of The People now. You white Indian!”

  Four Dog carefully handed the rifle to Chris, then stood back, his eyes solemn and watchful as he fingered the medicine bone. There was a sudden flurry as two of the Indians appeared, mounted and leading other horses. Four Dog motioned to a short thick bay, which Chris mounted, and they moved out across the snow toward the camp.

  A thought crossed Chris’s mind, causing him to smile. Wonder what Knox and them mountain men would think if they saw me now? Running Wolf, facing Chris in the travois, studied his smile and wondered at the strange ways of the white eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE RAID AND THE REWARD

  The winter of ’99 ravaged the land like a wolf, but finally the last of the ice melted under the warm March breezes. Running Wolf had been slow to heal after his wrestle with the grizzly. The right side of his face was pulled up as a result of the terrible head wounds, and the scars from the stitches still showed white through the bronze of his skin, but he still had his scalp. The leg had healed slowly, and Chris spent many of the long winter days and nights in the injured warrior’s tepee, for the two had become fast friends.

  Chris had brought in game with the long rifle when famine threatened to destroy The People; this, along with his feat of killing the bear and stealing the medicine of Four Dog, had placed him in a peculiar position for a white man. The Sioux called themselves “The People” as if they were the only race in the world—as if none of the others really mattered. Chris had never heard of a white man being allowed to live in the Sioux society, although young white children were sometimes taken captive and
allowed to be a part of a slave class. In any case, no one could remember a white eyes becoming one of The People as Chris had.

  He picked up the language quickly, for there was no one except Running Wolf who spoke English, which had improved during their relationship. In addition to his hunting prowess, it was quickly discovered that Chris was one to reckon with at most of the tests of strength and endurance.

  He was an honored guest in any tepee, and by the end of the first month, he could name every brave and most of the women, not to mention a great many children with whom he was a great favorite. Unlike the men of the tribe—who never seemed to notice the smaller children—the white warrior often joined them in their games, amused at how shocked the warriors were to see him rolling around with a host of small children screaming and clinging to his limbs.

  “Bear Killer is a strange man,” Four Dog said once as he sat along with Running Wolf and the chief of The People, Red Hand.

  “All white eyes are crazy,” Red Hand mused.

  Running Wolf watched the game with amusement. “I wish all white eyes were crazy like Bear Killer. We’d have starved—many of us—without his long rifle.”

  “True,” Red Hand admitted. “But he is not one of us. If war came with the white eyes, he would turn and be our enemy.”

  The other two were quiet, for they had both considered this very thing. The big white man had been one of them during the frozen winter, but what would he do when the earth warmed and The People had to fight as they always had?

  The answer came a few weeks later. Grey Bull, the medicine man, announced that it was time for two of the young men to be admitted to the rites of manhood. “Tomorrow, Little Crow and Sixkiller will hang at the pole.”

  Although Chris could now communicate fluently in the Sioux tongue, he had never heard this term before. When voices rose at Grey Bull’s words, he leaned closer to Running Wolf, seated beside him. “What’s that mean—hang at the pole?”

  “Hanging at the pole is the way a young boy becomes a full-fledged member of The People.” Suddenly Running Wolf twisted his head and studied Chris. A thought had flashed into his mind, but he said nothing until the two of them had retired to his tepee.

  Running Wolf’s wife, a pregnant girl of about fifteen named Still Water, had supper waiting for them. She was a quiet girl, at least in public, but Chris had already discovered a streak of humor in her. As soon as she lost her awe of the white man, she had begun a campaign to fit him with a wife. Running Wolf was amused by her efforts. “Women are all alike—can’t stand to see a man without a woman.”

  Hungrily Chris devoured the stew Still Water had prepared. She squatted beside the fire in order to refill his bowl before she spoke in coaxing tones. “You sleep cold, Bear Killer, and you have no lodge.” She looked over the pot she was stirring with a gleam in her dark eyes. “I find you nice young girl. You sleep warm, eat good.”

  Chris grinned at her, his teeth white in the midst of the reddish beard that came down to his chest—a wonderfully luxuriant beard that was a source of amusement for some of the men of the tribe, though others were openly envious. “Guess I was born to sleep cold, Still Water. No woman would put up with me.”

  “Little Antelope would not run away too fast,” she said, smiling into the pot.

  Running Wolf spoke up angrily. “Be still, Woman! Bear Killer is not one of The People. He will go back to his own in the spring.”

  Chris gave him a quick look, trying to read the wooden features of the other. He shook his head, saying, “I may leave here, Running Wolf—if I’m no longer welcome—but I don’t want to go back to my own people. I like the way I’m living now.”

  Running Wolf considered that, and then he put his hand on Chris’s shoulder—a rare gesture that made the white man look up. “You could hang at the pole,” he said quietly. “I would like for my brother to be one of The People.”

  Chris stared at him, and a strong desire to be a part of the tribe rose in him. “If I would do that—hang at the pole—would I be permitted to stay with The People?”

  “It would give you a chance to prove yourself—but it is a hard thing, Bear Killer. Many men cannot do it.”

  “What does it mean—’hang at the pole’?”

  Running Wolf pointed to several marks on his chest. “You see these scars? They come from hanging at the pole. The medicine man cuts into the muscles and ties rawhide thongs through the wounds. Then the young man is pulled up to hang in the air until he breaks the skin and falls to the earth. Sometimes the flesh is too strong—and they have to be taken down. Some never do it.”

  Chris said no more, but for a long time that night he lay awake, thinking about it. He had adjusted to life among the Sioux far better than he had dared hope—but this thing was the ultimate challenge. If ’n you make it through a season on these here Sioux grounds... reckon there ain’t no quicker way to find out what you’re made of... Con’s words rang in his ears.

  In that moment he made up his mind to do it.

  The next morning he said nothing to Running Wolf, but no surprise registered on Wolf’s face when Chris stepped forward to join the two young men who were to be initiated that day. A murmur swept through the crowd when he moved toward Grey Bull, but it was a glad sound, and it made Chris smile proudly as he stood there. He noticed one very old man and a young girl standing beside Running Wolf. She was the prettiest squaw he’d ever seen, far slimmer than most, with eyes that were a light gray instead of the usual brown. Her features were finer and more delicate, so he knew she had white blood.

  Grey Bull stared at the white man, then glanced toward Red Hand, who nodded slightly.

  The ceremony took place under a large oak with strong limbs branching out about twelve feet from the ground. The pain was fierce when Grey Bull punched holes in the muscles of Chris’s chest; and when he was hauled up, he felt as if a dozen knives were slicing him to pieces. The other two men were soon hanging beside him, and the ordeal began.

  Later, when it was over, Chris could not remember the pain. It was as if he were outside his own body observing the spectacle. All day they had hung there, twisting slowly in the breeze, and the faces that turned to look up at him were burned in his memory. They kept well back, for it was to them a sacred thing, but he saw them clearly—especially the sharp features of Running Wolf, who stared at him without a flicker of emotion.

  He heard everything going on around him as well, for it seemed that his senses had sharpened. That night as the cool breezes played over his body, he looked up, and it was as if he had never seen the stars so sharp and clear. Each of them was a separate dot of light, with its own shape and color, distinct from all the others.

  Gradually Chris grew weaker. When he saw that one of the young men had succeeded in breaking free, he renewed his efforts, but his muscles were too thick and he could not tear loose. The next day the other young man fell heavily to the ground and was taken away, which left Chris alone. It was a long night.

  The next morning he was not fully conscious any longer, and only faintly heard the voice that pleaded, “Bear Killer! Give up! Let me cut you down!”

  But Bear Killer would not give up, and shook his head adamantly. With a great convulsive leap he jolted his body high, feeling the flesh tear as it came back down. He fell to the ground in a dead faint.

  When he regained consciousness, he was in Running Wolf’s lodge. By the light of a tallow lamp made of buffalo horn, he saw the face of the Sioux staring at him silently. The smell of bear grease was overpowering, and he knew that his wounds had been cleansed and plastered with it.

  “You did well, Bear Killer.”

  Chris suddenly smiled and asked, “Am I one of The People?”

  “You will be—when you steal the horse of one of our enemies.” Running Wolf smiled, then added, “Every warrior wants to go on a raid with Bear Killer. You hung on the pole longer than any man ever did. You are good medicine.”

  “When do we steal these horses?”r />
  “As soon as you are well.”

  The ordeal had taken more out of Chris than he thought. To make matters worse, one of the wounds in his chest became infected. He tried to ignore it, but Running Wolf shook his head, saying, “Bad wound.” Still Water tried every remedy she knew, but in three days the wound was festering and he was running a fever.

  Grey Bull came in and shook his rattles over Chris, but the next day it looked worse. Chris was lying on a buffalo rug and was burning up with fever. He heard Running Wolf and Still Water arguing about something, but he couldn’t wake up enough to make out what the argument was about. When he woke up he felt a cool hand on his chest, and opening his eyes he looked into the face of the young girl with the gray eyes.

  She had a small knife in one hand and was about to do something to his wound, but stopped when his eyes opened. “I am White Dove,” she said quietly. “I will make you well.”

  He later heard that the girl had a reputation for treating sicknesses that made Grey Bull rage with jealousy. Most of the Indians would send for the old man for the sake of his feelings, but often as not it was White Dove that came by later and treated them.

  “I will have to open the wound and clean it out,” she told him. Then she smiled. “It will hurt very much—but I have seen the courage of Bear Killer.”

  “Do it,” he answered. As she began to work on the wound, he studied her face, which was very close to his own. The white blood was evident in her coloring—a smooth light copper—and in her fine features. Her nose and lips were much thinner than those of most squaws. She had the high cheekbones of the Sioux, but there was a roundness to her face, a fullness in her cheeks, that was unusual. There was a bronze sheen in her dark hair when the sunlight hit it, unlike the jet black hair of Sioux women. Her hair, thought Chris, and those strange gray eyes, made her one of the most strikingly beautiful women he’d ever seen.

  Even the bulky elk robe she wore could not hide her trim figure, softly rounded by womanhood. Her neck was smooth and firm, and the hands were slender with tapering fingers.