Wolf Mountain Moon (25 page)

“This is not the way a man greets a warrior he honors,” Hollow Horns warned.

“Who can these men be?” Spotted Elk asked, worry making wings flutter in his belly. “Who are these strangers who act with such poor manners when we show that we come in peace?”

“Aiyeee!”
gasped Fat Hide, who clamped a hand over his
mouth. “Perhaps these are the
Psatoka
^*
from beyond the Greasy Grass country!”

“Look at them!” Hollow Horns grumbled angrily. “If these are
Psatoka
—they act like insolent children before our warriors!”

Spotted Elk turned to look at Crazy Horse a moment, finding the war chief's eyes crimped into narrow slits of hate. The
Psatoka
had been enemies of the
Titunwan
Lakota back into many generations. Could such bad blood be set aside now? he wondered.

As the dozen strangers got closer and closer to the peace delegation, Spotted Elk's heart began to thump all the faster in his breast, like the beating of a wounded bird's wing. He glanced beyond the strangers, finding some three or four soldiers advancing on foot in the distance—trotting, in a hurry. There was much activity taking place at the first fringe of log huts beyond those Indian lodges erected on the right, where even more warriors stirred now, clearly a few women too, all of them beginning to emerge from the trees and leafless willow onto the open plain.

Too many of the strangers … more than ten-times-ten. Back and forth they shouted to those who came hurrying on foot to confront the five delegates. If they were indeed
Psatoka,
thought Spotted Elk, then there was reason for him to fear for Tall Bull and the other delegates.

For winters beyond his count the
Psatoka
had allied themselves with the
wasicu.
For many winters the
Titunwan
Lakota had been making forays deep into traditional
Psatoka
hunting grounds. Many were the scalps Lakota warriors had carried home from the enemy's country. Hard and cold must be the hearts of the
Psatoka
warriors against all Lakota. Even Lakota coming in peace, with their pipes out, with the
wasicu's
white flags fluttering over their heads.

“Perhaps there is nothing to fear,” Hollow Horns suddenly said, hope rising in his voice.

“Yes, look!” agreed Fat Hide. “The
Psatoka
are showing their hands to our men.”

“They want to shake hands!” Hollow Horns cheered.

Spotted Elk nodded, his heart leaping, and said, “This is a good sign!”

Just as the frost from those last two words hung in the cold air before his face, Spotted Elk watched one of the strangers clasp hands with Packs the Drum, then suddenly jerk, yanking the man off the back of his pony. As quickly, other extended hands locked on to Lakota arms and dragged the remaining four delegates to the ground, where all five disappeared in a swirl of horses' legs, a flurry of blows, the bright glint of sunlight on metal blades, along with the lusty blood-cries of those who had ambushed the delegates.

From the trees to the right burst a sudden cry as the many
Psatoka
who had been watching burst into the clearing, sprinting past the ambush toward Spotted Elk and the others.

Crazy Horse yanked his Winchester from beneath his buffalo robe, trying to steady his prancing horse. “They are murderers!”

“We cannot save them!” Hollow Horns shouted as he wheeled his pony, jabbing heels into its ribs.

Quickly trying to stuff his pipe back into its sacred bag, Spotted Elk fought to pull his bow from its wolf-skin quiver with a handful of arrows. He would stay with Crazy Horse and He Dog as long as there was a fight.

“No!” Fat Hide snarled. “There are too many!”

Spotted Elk nocked an arrow on his bowstring. “We cannot leave them—”

“They are lost!” He Dog growled, shoving Spotted Elk as the many on foot closed the gap on them.

“Turn the horses! Turn the horses!” Fat Hide ordered Bad Leg and The Yearling.

All was confusion now. In the middistance a handful of soldiers were shouting. Spotted Elk could hear their voices, see the breathsmoke puffing from their tiny mouths as they came racing toward the scene. The delegates' ponies were bolting, scattering in fear to the four winds, being chased by some of the enemy warriors and their women.

Oh, how those
Psatoka
screamed and screeched at the Lakota fortunate to escape,
Psatoka
holding aloft Lakota pipes in one hand, the scalps of those five honorable men they had just murdered in the other.

Spotted Elk glanced over his shoulder, finding more
soldiers were coming now. Behind them a soldier horn was blowing too.
Wasicu
coming from many directions now. It was a wholesale ambush! The soldiers broke from hiding, running to help the
Psatoka
murder all the Lakota.

Those left with Crazy Horse wheeled about and kicked their ponies into a hard gallop, heading back to that low rise of ground where they had first looked down upon the soldier fort. Where they had first spotted the enemy lodges back among the trees along the Buffalo Tongue River.

For a few heartbeats He Dog halted them, throwing up his arm and bringing his pony around in a tight circle. Down on the flat ground they saw the soldiers reaching the scene, guns in their hands. At that very moment Spotted Elk watched a
Psatoka
warrior disappear into the tall willow with the two white flags, carrying away those signals of peace as the soldiers arrived.

“We better go before the soldiers follow us!” Fat Hide cried out.

Already Bad Leg and The Yearling and some others were frantically driving the horses hard through the deep snow, down off the high ground, heading south, racing back up the Buffalo Tongue River toward the Crazy Horse village.

He Dog waved the rest on, waiting to be the last to flee with Crazy Horse. But Spotted Elk reined up beside them, all three waiting a breathless moment longer, gazing down at that scene … realizing that there were no survivors, knowing the soldiers'
Psatoka
wolves had killed all five.

No man could still be alive after that treacherous butchery.

“There, Mr. Leforge!” Nelson Miles screamed at the civilian, ripping the two white towels from the hands of Hobart Bailey, his adjutant. The colonel roughly yanked up Tom Leforge's hand and stuffed the flags into it.

“G-general—”

“There, by Jupiter! Your goddamned Crow are guilty of unprovoked and cowardly murder!”

“I can't believe—”

“There—that's your evidence!” Miles roared. “What have you to say to that?”

Leforge could do little more than stare down at the flags
and wag his head in disgust. One of the towels was even stained with a little blood. Sioux blood.

“Bull Eagle! They even killed Bull Eagle!” Miles screeched, wagging his head violently. Then his voice suddenly quieted. “He was one I took a real liking to, figured I could trust his word.” Then he was screeching again, “And now your bunch of cowards have murdered him!”

Leforge gulped, then said, “I know most of them what done this—”

“You know the sons of bitches, do you?”

Shrugging, looking back up into the flinty glare of the colonel, Leforge admitted, “Don't know what come over 'em to do anything like this.”

“A little too late to figure that out, don't you think, Mr. Leforge?” Miles was seething. “Why—just yesterday I had you warn that bunch of yours that I would hang any one of them if they killed one of my Yanktonais couriers riding between here and Buford or Peck. Now they've killed Bull Eagle!”

Leforge pleaded, “Sir, they told me them Sioux fired on their women as they was riding in.”

“Bullshit!” Miles roared, slamming a fist down on his flimsy desk. “You and I both know those five didn't come riding into a soldier fort shooting up your Crow camp!”

“The women … they'll tell you—”

“Shut your lying mouth before I shut it for you, Leforge!” Miles fumed. “I have witnesses—soldier witnesses—that tell me different. I for one could not believe the Sioux would ride in here under a flag of truce, shooting at your women!”

Leforge swallowed hard, then nodded grudgingly. “General—there's most of 'em wanna try to make it up to you—”

“Make it up to me?” Miles interrupted Tom Leforge. “Don't you understand that just a month ago Bull Eagle showed up here, came riding right in here while I was gone chasing Sitting Bull? That's right—he came in under a white flag—just like the ones your Crow tried to hide—came in to get some rations because he trusted me, because I told him he could trust that white flag!”

Leforge stared at the floor. “I can't defend what they done, General.”

“Bull Eagle was the sort of man doing what was best for
his people,” Miles stormed. “He alone was more of an honorable man than a hundred of those cowardly Crow of yours!”

Never before had Luther Kelly seen the man so angry. Make no mistake, Nelson A. Miles was an emotional, volatile man. But this … this treachery and attempt at cover-up had the general right on the edge. Miles was shuddering as he tried to contain his fury, his fists clenching and unclenching. As the general slowly brought both fists up, Kelly became afraid Miles would do something he might well regret.

Luther instantly stepped between Miles and the squaw man. “General—if I may. Let's try to sort out what we can do about all this right now.”

“What we can do right now!” Miles shrieked. “We had five Sioux chiefs ride in here to surrender their people to me. Our efforts at convincing the enemy that we will continue to make war on them is finally beginning to bear enough fruit that Bull Eagle and his emissaries come riding in here under two goddamned white banners of peace … and they're butchered within sight of my post!”

Miles lunged at the two grease-stained white towels Leforge held across his open hands, but Kelly was there first, tearing them away from the squaw man.

“Any reason why your Crow would kill the Sioux chiefs without warning?” Kelly demanded, glaring into Leforge's eyes.

“Any reason?” Leforge answered. “How 'bout lots of dead relatives—if one reason's good as another for you.”

Miles grumbled something under his breath, turning slightly before he roared, “They're cowards, Leforge! All of them who had any hand in this! I'm not sure I shouldn't string you up while I've got my hands on you! Just to show your bunch what I think of cowards!”

Kelly watched Leforge flinch and swallow hard at that imaginary noose tightening around his throat.

The squaw man bravely said, “If that somehow evens things, General—then string me up.”

Miles began to sputter with frustration. “You know goddamned well it won't do me a bit of good with the Sioux, Leforge! Those other riders who watched your Crow kill the five helpless chiefs, why—they're halfway back to Crazy Horse right now … off to tell him that my word can't be trusted!
Your back-stabbing sonsabitches have gone and shattered months of my hard work trying to hit the Sioux solidly while talking straight to them at the same time!”

“I ain't got no idea what you want me to do now, General,” Leforge pleaded.

Miles leaned in to ask, “You said the dozen or so responsible for the murders have already escaped?”

“They took off about as soon as your soldiers started showing up.”

“Cowards!” Miles shouted as he whirled on his heel and stomped back to collapse behind his desk in the canvas chair. “Those Crow are supposed to be warriors! Warriors don't kill unarmed enemies under a flag of truce!”

Feeling almost like a traitor himself, Kelly had to declare, “General, the Sioux had weapons under their blankets—just like at Cedar Creek.”

“But they didn't have those weapons out and ready to use, by God!” Miles blustered. He turned to glare at the squaw man. “What will become of those responsible, Leforge?”

“They've took off for the agency, General.”

“And you'll never get your hands on them,” Kelly admitted. “The rest of the tribe will protect them, harbor them.”

“Yellow-backed cowards,” the colonel fumed. “I don't think I can trust one of your mercenaries now, Leforge.” Miles turned to Charles Dickey. “Captain, I'm hereby ordering you to disarm the remaining Crow scouts and send them packing.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Dickey. “Anything more?”

“I want you to dismount them, Captain—then I'm going to send those ponies to the Sioux, along with a few pounds of tobacco and my word that I had nothing to do with this. Yes—I'll send those ponies back with a couple of the friendly Yankton couriers. By Jupiter—that ought to make the Crow think twice about pulling this kind of yellow-backed thing again.”

“General,” Leforge began to plead, “the rest of 'em ain't to blame.”

“Did they stand and watch?”

Leforge shrugged. “I s'pose they did—”

“Did the rest of your goddamned Crow stop the murders?”

“No,” and he wagged his head.

“I can't trust any bunch who will kill someone coming in under a flag of truce, Leforge,” said Miles. “I don't want your Crow around here anymore.”

The squaw man said, “I'll pull out in the morning.”

“No, not you,” Miles said. “You're not going anywhere.”

“N-no, sir?”

“You're staying right here, Leforge.”

“Why are you sending all the rest back to the agency and you're keeping me here?” Leforge asked, his eyes filling with worry. “You making me your prisoner?”

“No, you knuckle-brained son of a bitch. You're my guide, my tracker. Kelly knows what lies north of here, but you know more about this country south of the Yellowstone than any scout I've got on the payroll. Tomorrow I want you to pick two of the most trustworthy Crow you can find—then send the rest packing.”