Black Horse (7 page)

Brandon Cornett wished he could shed every stitch of his clothing. The heat of the midday sun felt almost unbearable, and the heavy woolen coat he was wearing made him feel like a million miniature irons were pressing into his skin. He sighed, deep and hard. What he would give to take off his coat. But then, he reminded himself, he would be out of uniform. With a sense of aggravation, he glanced at his superior officer, Superintendent Walsh. Instead of the formal uniform worn by the other North-West Mounted Police, the flamboyant leader of the troop at Fort Walsh preferred to wear a fringed buckskin outfit.

A frown tugged at Brandon’s mouth as he continued to study the man who led the troop. Even now, on this solemn mission, the commander wore his unorthodox suit as he rode at the head of the small brigade. Brandon thought his attire was in gross defiance of the rules.

“What’d ya think that savage will be like?”

Brandon glanced absently at the man who had just ridden up beside him, interrupting a daydream about his future as the superintendent of his own fort. “Who?”

“Old Sitting Bull,” the sergeant replied. “I heard he looks meaner than a rattler and is twice as deadly.”

Brandon shrugged. “Seems like he’s been a might docile since he’s been up here in Canada.” His voice, deep, and heavy with a French-Canadian accent, contained an obvious note of annoyance.

“He’s just waitin’ to strike,” Sergeant Rattan said. He gave his head a firm shake. “You mark my words, Lieutenant, Sittin’ Bull’s calm now. But he’s still lickin’ his wounds from the Little Bighorn. Once he’s had time to regroup, he’ll grow strong again. Then, he’ll wipe out everything—and everybody—who gets in his way.”

Brandon kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. “I hope you’re wrong,” he answered. An icy shiver raced down his spine. He kept recalling the rumors, or truths, that had been circulating around the fort. Over five thousand Indians, mostly Sioux, had crossed over the Canadian border in the past few months. Their enormous number meant that before long, sickness and disease would likely erupt; starvation was inevitable, too.

To make matters worse, they had also heard that the Sioux’ worst enemies, the Blackfoot, had also taken up residency in the area. The two warring tribes would undoubtedly continue with their murderous raids on one another’s villages, especially since all the Indians were restless, angry and tired of running away from the relentless American soldiers on the other side of the border.

A sense of doom caused a heavy knot to settle in the pit of Brandon’s stomach. How could the measly hundred and two Mounties who were stationed at Fort Walsh ever hope to control an invasion of thousands of vengeful Indians? Newly built here in the Cypress Hills, the stockade that housed Fort Walsh repre
sented the only form of law and order in the North—West Territories.

Sergeant Rattan rode beside Brandon without making any further comments about the Indians. Brandon sighed with relief. He did not want to dwell on what might happen when they reached the Indian encampment. They had sent a scout to the village to warn the Indians that they were coming, and he had returned unharmed, so Brandon hoped there was nothing to worry about. If the sergeant was right about Sitting Bull, this entire mission was foolish and suicidal.

Once again Brandon noticed how intolerable the heat was today—or was it just his nervousness? He squirmed uneasily in his saddle and then tugged hard on the high collar of his coat. It seemed abnormally warm for Canada at this time of year; during the day it felt more like July than September. But at night the temperature dipped significantly, and the chill in the air was already hinting at the approaching winter.

The announcement that the Sioux village was near snapped Brandon’s thoughts back to the business at hand. A nervous twitch in his stomach made him feel queasy. Since becoming a Mountie, this was by far the most dangerous mission in which he had ever been involved. His fear continued to grow as he listened to Superintendent Walsh’s instructions.

“We are here on a peaceful mission,” Walsh called out to his troops. “Under no circumstances are we to initiate any trouble.”

“What if they start it?” Rattan asked, then added in a slightly belligerent tone, “Sir?”

Walsh cast the sergeant a narrowed-eyed glare. “There are thousands of them, and a dozen of us. If
they want to fight, I guess this will be the day we all meet our Maker.”

Walsh’s blunt retort left the troop silent and looking as if they all wanted to turn tail and run. The superintendent didn’t give them the chance. He raised his arm up into the air. The long suede fringe that decorated his shirt waved like a flag from his sleeve as he signaled for his men to follow him into the Indian encampment.

Brandon’s horse fell in line as they began their march into the village to meet with Sitting Bull and other important leaders of the Sioux tribes. The nausea in his stomach expanded. Now he felt a hard knot forming in his chest, too. What was it he had heard that the Indians always said before going into a battle? “It’s a good day to die,” he whispered as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The sun continued to beat down on his fevered face, yet he shivered. It did not seem like such a good day to die, Brandon thought as he clenched his horse’s reins tighter in his sweaty hands.

As the troop neared the village, the sound of drums could be heard echoing through the dense forest. Expecting to be surrounded by warriors who had murder ruling their thoughts, Brandon was surprised when they continued to approach the village without being stopped or killed. The pounding of the drums seemed to rival the pounding of his heartbeat, but Brandon wasn’t sure which one was louder. The horrid stories of the recent battle at the Little Bighorn on the American side of the border kept flashing through his mind. General Custer and his troops had not fared well against Sitting Bull and his warriors. What made
this little troop of Mounties think they would do any better?

The thick, towering pines began to grow sparse, and the noises coming from the village grew closer. Columns of smoke could be seen rising up through the treetops. Brandon was beginning to think they were going to be able to ride right into the center of the camp, when a loud shout halted their progress. Within seconds, Indians surrounded the Mounties. The sea of dark faces blurred before Brandon’s eyes. He blinked nervously and tried to focus on the Indian standing nearest to him. Blinding panic gripped Brandon when his gaze met with the piercing dark eyes of the Indian who had suddenly appeared at his horse’s side.

As his vision cleared, Brandon realized he was now staring down the barrel of a .44 Winchester. He had never seen an Indian carrying a gun until now, and the sight of the Sioux warrior holding one was unnerving. He remembered hearing that most American Indians were usually well armed with guns they had either stolen from soldiers or obtained from unscrupulous traders.

From the corner of his eye Brandon noticed his comrades were all being ordered to dismount. Using the gun he held, the Indian beside Brandon motioned for him to do the same. With slow, cautious movements, he dropped to the ground. His gaze remained on the gun, but his thoughts were going in a dozen directions at once. Mostly, he was thinking about how the Indians tortured their captives. When the Indian shoved his gun in his side, Brandon prayed he would just shoot him now.

All activity ceased when the Mounties were led into the center of the camp. Superintendent Walsh made several attempts to speak to the Indians but was ignored. Now, they were surrounded by a large group of women, children and barking dogs. Walsh fell silent as he watched the crowd grow in number, although the Indians made no attempt to harass the soldiers. The Sioux spoke to one another in whispers that were not audible to the soldiers. Shortly, the group of Indians began to part, making a path for several others.

Brandon watched the men approach in fascination and fear. It was obvious by their elaborate costumes and headdresses they were important men in this tribe, but it was their dignified manner that impressed him the most. There was no doubt the man who walked in front was Sitting Bull. Brandon had heard that the powerful medicine man and chief walked with a limp as a result of a bullet wound from a Crow’s gun during a horse raid when Sitting Bull was just a young man. When the feared leader stopped before the Mounties, Walsh stepped forward.

Sitting Bull nodded a curt greeting to Walsh, which the superintendent imitated. An exchange of Sioux words followed, with Walsh speaking first, then Sitting Bull. There appeared to be no harsh words spoken, and since the superintendent spoke to the Sioux leaders in their own language, Brandon had no knowledge of what was being said until Walsh turned around and repeated the brief conversation in English.

“Sitting Bull has assured me that his people have abandoned their fight on the other side of the border.”
In spite of his calm manner, Brandon noticed a heavy mask of sweat coated the superintendent’s face as he spoke.

“Are we free to leave, then?” one nervous-looking Mountie asked.

“Sitting Bull has asked us to stay for a wedding that is about to take place. I’ve accepted his invitation,” Walsh announced. The obvious tension that was apparent in his expression and tone of voice began to fade as he added, “He said his people are too tired to fight anymore—and I honestly believe him.”

After Brandon watched Walsh turn around and follow Sitting Bull toward the center of the village, he glanced at the crowd of Indians who had slowly backed away to make passage for the soldiers. An overpowering sense of sorrow washed through him. He had been prepared to hate these savages, but there was nothing savage about these pitiful-looking people. The sea of dark faces around him were not hostile and murderous. Many of the women—especially the older ones—looked as if they had borne the weight of a thousand pounds throughout their lifetimes. There was emptiness in their eyes and a look of hopelessness on their haggard faces. Most of the men looked old and walked with hunched shoulders and slow steps. But it was the children Brandon found the most pathetic. In spite of their tiny bodies, the haunted expressions they wore on their faces made them seem as though they weren’t really children at all. It was as if their youth had been stripped away and they had forgotten what it meant to play.

Walking through the village, Brandon was amazed
to see how many tepees were crowded into this wooded area. He guessed there had to be several hundred lodges scattered among the trees. His nervousness returned as he settled down on the ground beside the rest of his comrades. The Indians joined them, all sitting down in a huge circle around a large fire pot. Several large buffalo hindquarters roasted over the hot coals, giving off a scrumptious aroma. Brandon had heard the Sioux were at the point of starvation, but it did not appear that they were doing without food now. Buffalo were rare in this part of Canada, so Brandon was even more surprised to see that there seemed to be such an abundance of this type of game in the village.

When a long pipe was handed to him, Brandon obediently took a puff. The tobacco was potent and it felt as if it had lighted his throat and nose on fire. Trying to keep from choking, he handed the pipe to the next man. A gruff cough escaped from him in spite of his attempt to hold it back. He kept his attention focused on Superintendent Walsh and Sitting Bull.

He was not able to hear their voices because of the drums that had resumed beating. The Mountie sitting closest to Walsh, however, began to pass bits and pieces of the conversation down the line as the superintendent relayed information to him. When the tidbits reached Brandon’s waiting ears, he learned that the wedding they were about to witness was that of a war chief and the daughter of an elderly medicine man. He was one of the men who had accompanied Sitting Bull out to meet them when they had first arrived in the village. That same medicine man was sitting next to Sitting Bull now. Brandon eyed him thoughtfully.
He looked slightly older than Sitting Bull, and not nearly as fierce. Sitting Bull, with his hawk-like nose and perpetual frown, seemed almost ominous.

The pounding of the drums grew more intense, drawing Brandon’s attention to the opposite side of the fire pit. Through the rising smoke he could see a man walking toward the head of the circle where the chiefs and Superintendent Walsh sat. The man walked tall and straight. Brandon guessed he was young because he still moved with a sense of pride—unlike many of the men he had noticed in the village. When the man stepped out from the veil of smoke, Brandon finally got a clear view. A cold chill whipped through his body as he stared at the young chief. He wore the most magnificent costume Brandon had ever seen. As his gaze traveled down from the huge feathered headdress to the beaded and fringed moccasins the chief wore, his sense of foreboding increased. When Brandon looked back up, he caught a glimpse of the man’s face. Another icy shiver shook through Brandon. This man was the epitome of the dangerous savage he had always feared.

“Who is that Indian?” one of the Mounties closest to Brandon asked in a low voice.

With a shrug, Brandon leaned toward the man on his other side and asked the same question. The inquiry was repeated until it reached the man closest to Walsh. When the name Black Horse was echoed back through the circle, Brandon felt another deep sense of foreboding settle in his chest. He had never heard the name before, but he had the distinct feeling that this man was not just another Indian. There was a dangerous aura about the young chief, a sense of something
reckless, powerful…and memorable. “He’s the one who brought the buffalo,” whispered Sergeant Rattan. “There was whiskey, too, but they already gulped all that down.”

“Thank goodness,” Brandon replied. He knew the Indians’ reputation for drinking. If they had arrived while the Indians were still drunk, the Mounties might have received a far less cordial greeting.

The beating of the drums intensified as all eyes turned toward the opposite side of the fire again. Brandon was eager to get a clear view of the bride, whom he could see moving through the smoky haze. When she stepped up to the chief, Brandon felt his breath catch in his throat. She wore a light-colored buckskin dress that looked as if it had been tanned until it was as soft as melted butter. Beads and long fringe hung from the neckline, and also from the sleeves and the uneven hemline that hung down to the top of her high moccasins. Her hair was braided on both sides of her head with leather thongs that matched her dress, and long white feathers hung from the sides of the beaded headband that encircled her head. She was, Brandon decided in that instant, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen…and she was a white woman!