Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) Read online

  Iron Heart, now in his seventy-sixth year, was still a robust man, having survived the, ravages of the white man's diseases, a Crow arrow, and several bullets from both Indians and veho. Age had not stooped his shoulders nor dimmed his vision. He stood six foot four inches, and his black eyes were as piercing as they had been when he first counted coup as a boy of fifteen. Standing in the door of his lodge, he stretched while he watched the birth of a new day. It never ceased to awe him, as the mighty hands of the Powers sundered the blackness and thrust in the light each morning.

  He heard a procession of giggling young maidens, some from his village and some from adjacent bands, venturing in search of summer berries. Iron Heart continued to watch the eastern sky expectantly. It was not only the sunrise that held his attention, but something more. He had a dream last night, and his dreams were seldom wrong. Hunting Hawk was coming back to his people. He felt it in his bones. It was time.

  By midafternoon the old man's vigil was rewarded when a lone rider appeared on the horizon. Even before he could distinguish the tall rider he recognized the huge bay stallion of his grandson.

  Hawk looked at the village, spread across the rich grassy prairie in a neat geometric design, clean and orderly, in union with nature. In his mind he contrasted it with the ugly sprawl of Miles City. Kneeing Redskin gently, Hawk rode briskly into the embrace of the lodges and their people. Many had come out to greet the half-blooded grandson of Iron Heart. Most were friendly, but a few of the young bucks in the warrior societies were hostile. Hawk was bareheaded and dressed in a simple buckskin shirt, pants, and soft moccasins. He wore only his knife, no sidearms, as a symbol of respect for the village he entered as a brother. The big bay carried no saddle. In Cheyenne society, only the women and old men rode with saddles.

  Hawk slid effortlessly off the stallion and stood face-to-face with Iron Heart in front of the elder's lodge. They clasped arms gravely. “It is good to be home, Grandfather.”

  “It is good to have you here, Hunting Hawk.” There was a look of peace in the old man's eyes as he ushered his daughter's only son into the lodge. This would be a private reunion. Time enough for feasting tonight. There were things that must be said.

  “The village looks prosperous. I counted ponies like waves on the sea as I rode in, even buffalo and elk hides drying in the sun.” Hawk looked at the clean, functional interior of the tepee with its hard-packed earthen floor, soft grass-stuffed beds and willow backrests. The cooking pot outside had been full of a thick antelope stew. He was relieved hard times had not yet struck this band.

  “For now, it is good, but never like before. In the old days, the buffalo darkened the plains and shook the earth. No more. They are few. Even the elk and deer grow scarce. For one more summer we rejoice, but trouble comes.” The old man sat down gracefully on one of the thick beds and reclined against the willow backrest, motioning for Hawk to do likewise.

  When they were comfortable, Iron Heart prepared and lit his pipe, a ritual of welcome he greatly enjoyed. He offered it to Hawk, who accepted the honor and took a pull on it.

  “You speak of trouble. I know the game grows less as the whites grow more. I fear for the People.” Hawk's eyes were clouded with a worry he was powerless to dispel.

  “It is more than these things that have been happening slowly. Since I was a young warrior I could see our fate.”

  “What do you mean, Grandfather?”

  The old man paused, thoughtfully. “You have been away to the south for many moons. You have not heard. It concerns He Who Walks in Sun.”

  At the mention of his father's name, Hawk stiffened. “What has he to do with the trouble?”

  “The bad medicine wagons that run on wooden trails are coming closer to our lands. Already this spring, word has come from the sacred lands of Dakota that the white men build more wooden roads. They stretch ever closer to the sunset. Within a year they will be on this hunting, ground.”

  Railroads this far west! Hawk swore in English. The rails of the Northern Pacific had stopped in the middle of Dakota Territory back in '73 when old Jay Cooke went bust. Who the devil had resumed construction? “I have not heard this news. When I returned to the ranch, no word was spoken of it. Are you sure Noah is involved?”

  “He sends his cattle herders to set up their little wood huts on pieces of the land to the east, all in a straight line.” Iron Heart's eyes were shrewd as he looked at Hawk.

  They both knew what it meant. In order to bribe the railroad into using a route near his ranch, a cattle baron would have his cowboys purchase homestead tracts from the railroad. The railroads had supposedly paid the Indian Bureau for the land “held in trust” for the plains tribes, from whom it had really been stolen. The red .men never saw any money from the Indian Bureau.

  However, once the cowboy had built a crude shack as “proof of intent” to farm the land, he simply turned the actual use of it over to his boss, who had paid for it in the first place. Thus the intent of the Homestead Act was subverted, with both small farmers and Indian tribes the losers, especially the Indians. Once railroads ran into an area, towns followed and game became scarce. With no means of sustaining their food supply, the hunters of the plains were starved onto reservations, pitiful little tracts of land the whites did not yet want.

  It was happening here, so far north. Hawk had hoped the inevitable could be forestalled, at least a little longer for the Northern Cheyenne. He was hardly surprised that Noah wanted a railhead in Miles City, a shipping point for his beef to rich eastern markets.

  He sighed in resignation, knowing nothing could stop the march of the rails. How close they came to the lands around the Circle S was another matter. “I will see what Noah plans, Grandfather.”

  “You are the one who will one day claim his land. It would be good if you could stop him from doing this thing now.”

  Hawk's face hardened in grim lines. “No. I will not be the one, Grandfather. Noah has taken a new wife, a young one.”

  Iron Heart pondered that news. “Is she a second wife? The barren one he married before., she still lives? I thought white men were not allowed two wives.”

  Hawk quirked a crooked half-smile. “Yes, Lola still lives, but Noah has divorced her. If a white man does that, he may take a new wife.”

  “Then you will live with the People, not with him. It is a bad thing to drift alone, coming and going from one place to another, belonging nowhere. Our lodges are open to you, and our hearts.”

  Hawk felt a tightening in his throat as he looked at the earnest old man who loved him. Yes, Iron Heart would welcome him, and so would many of the others, but he would still be a half-blood, one used to the other way of life, not quite fitting in. Several of the younger men had already made that plain. His own feelings were not clear either.

  “I will think about it, Grandfather. I do not know my own heart. If I can stop Noah in some way, I must try. Then...” He let the thought trail off unspoken. Truly, he did not know what course he would take.

  * * * *

  There was feasting that evening, for Iron Heart was an honored chief of the Cheyenne and his grandson was welcomed home. As they sat around the blazing fire in the center of the encampment, Hawk watched a maiden with a group of women on the other side of the leaping flames. She was young and delicately built with fine features, not the strongly hewn ones that were characteristic of the People. The bold sculptured faces of Cheyenne men were strikingly handsome, but the counterpart on women made most of them too heavy-featured for Hawk's taste. This young woman was distinctly enchanting, however.

  He recalled seeing her that afternoon when he left Iron Heart's tent. A sharp war cry had been sounded, and all the young men had quickly rushed out of camp as if to do battle. However, it was not a real war. Hawk recognized the false warhoop that was made by a girl. Often, as a sort of courtship ritual and for just plain fun, the young women on their way home from a day's food gathering would issue the war cry. The single men then rushed to respo
nd, and a mock battle ensued. The maidens pelted the braves with turnips and other roots they had gathered. The braves responded by returning the vegetables and then “capturing” the invaders.

  From the sidelines, he had watched them come gamboling back into camp in groups of two, three, and four, laughing and teasing innocently. The girl across the campfire had caught his eye then as she broke free of several attentive young men and rushed toward the lodges across the way. She had collided with him in her flight and seemed startled, knowing he was Iron Heart's half-blooded grandson. Yet she had lingered for a fleeting moment when her eyes met his and saw his appreciative look.

  “Grandfather, the maiden who stands next to Calf Woman, who is she? I do not remember her.” Hawk's curiosity was piqued by the lovely Cheyenne.

  The old man's eyes lit up. Yes, it might be a sign. It would be good. “Her name is Wind Song. She is the daughter of Standing Bear. He went to her mother's band when you were a small boy. Now, since her mother is dead she is returned among us with her father. Few of Black Reed's people are left alive. The remnants are among our lodges.”

  Hawk nodded in understanding. Smallpox had virtually wiped out many bands of Cheyenne. “She is very lovely, Grandfather.”

  The old man smiled. “Perhaps the blood calls you.”

  Hawk looked quizzically at Iron Heart, who chuckled and said, “Her grandfather was a French trapper who came to live among her mother's band in the old days. She, too, has a small bit of white blood in her.”

  Hawk shrugged, not wanting to confront his mixed heritage despite his grandfather's goodwill.

  That night he dreamed of Wind Song with her delicately blushing dusky cheeks and gleaming black braids. Were her green eyes a legacy from her French grandfather? What was so familiar about those eyes?

  Hawk was not the only dreamer that night. Wind Song had watched him from across the campfire in rapt fascination. So this was the great warchief's half-blooded grandson who lived much of his life among the veho.

  Sitting tall and straight, dressed in beautifully beaded buckskins, with his strongly chiseled features and dark eyes, he looked every inch a Cheyenne warrior. Yet the unbraided shoulder-length hair, the faint shadow of a beard, and the hair on his chest proclaimed him a white man, for all Cheyenne men wore long braids, did not need to shave and, indeed, possessed virtually no body hair. He was a curious blending of the red and the white, and to her eyes he looked good.

  She vividly recalled how they had collided that afternoon when she could not seem to free herself from his laughing black eyes. That night she dreamed of him bringing presents to her lodge and sending an intermediary to ask her bride-price of her father. With the morning's awakening, she hoped it was an omen. Such things often were.

  The next day more of the bands arrived for the summer ceremonies and the air of excitement in the camp grew. Always inveterate gamblers and lovers of fleet ponies, the young men of the Fox Warrior Society organized a horserace.

  “Will you join the competition, my friend? I know your big red pony to be fleet as the wind.” Stands Tall, one of the chiefs of the Fox Warriors, came to invite Hawk. Indeed, the race was basically a competition between members of the various warrior societies—Fox, Crazy Dog, and Elk—but even men not affiliated with any group were welcome to participate. Stands Tall was a longtime friend of Iron Heart and a gentle, courteous man of great dignity. Hawk had always liked him.

  Smiling, he replied, “I would be honored to race my bay, although 1 have already seen many swift ponies in the camp that might outdistance him.”

  Before the race began, Hawk rubbed the blood bay down until his coat gleamed like polished bronze. He had raised the great beast from a colt, a foal out of one of Noah's best mares. He trained it to be ridden with a saddle or bareback, mounted from left or right side. Making Redskin both a white man's saddle mount and a Cheyenne war pony appealed to his sense of irony as well as providing him with another way to aggravate his father.

  Noah had been scornfully certain no blooded animal would take to such training, and he waited, assured of his willful son's failure. He did not count on Hawk's uncanny way with animals. Redskin became not only the most intelligent cow pony on the Circle S, but the fastest racing horse as well. That he was accustomed to either Cheyenne or white men's style of riding was an added benefit to his proud owner.

  The day was hot. Like most of the men participating in the race, Hawk stripped to accommodate the heat and to lighten his weight. He wore only a breechclout and moccasins. His silver medallion gleamed against the bronze of his bare chest. The necklace had belonged to his mother, a gift from her beloved brother who was killed in battle before Hawk's birth. Originally it belonged to Iron Heart himself. It was Hawk's link to the past, to his Cheyenne heritage.

  He clubbed his hair back to keep it out of his eyes in the wind. Nothing was more dangerous than being blinded during a fast turn in a race. Now he envied the other braves their long hair that could be easily braided and kept out of their faces, but on the whole he preferred the coolness and comfort of shorter hair.

  When all the contestants finally arrived at the starting point of the race, wagers were thrown down at the betting tree by the racers and the onlookers. The tree was simply a tall pole erected in a clearing of flat ground designated for that purpose. Colorful jewelry, finely fashioned pipes, and warm buffalo robes were wagered. The prizes for the winners would be rich indeed.

  While the mounted men lined up and the course of the race was agreed upon, the maidens watched from the sidelines. Since many bands were gathered for the summer, the unmarried girls had a splendid assortment of prime young men to admire. A great deal of preening went on among the braves and giggling among the maidens who watched them.

  Wind Song came to the race with her younger sister Sweet Rain. While the twelve-year-old gazed in wide-eyed wonder at all the milling confusion as the finest horsemen from each band assembled, her older sister searched the ranks of blacks, chestnuts, and spotted ponies for a distinctive blood bay and its rider. She saw him just before the signal was given for the race to begin.

  Wind Song was fascinated as she gazed on his nearly naked body covered with an exotic furring of dark hair. How would it feel to run her hands over the curling hair on his chest? A little shiver of excitement tinged her cheeks with color at the unmaidenly thought. She noticed that the shadow of a beard, which had been visible in last night's firelight, was gone now. How did he do that? Wind Song had never seen a white man shave.

  The race began abruptly with a flurry of dust and the low thunder of hooves. Just before he took off on that huge red horse, Hawk looked over at Wind Song and caught her staring at him. He flashed her a grin and winked. She immediately cast her thick black lashes down until his face was turned and the race was on. Her heart hammered like the thud of hooves across the dry prairie grass.

  Judging by the field of horses, it was going to be a fast race. Stands Tall rode his lightning-quick little paint, Angry Wolf was astride a big gray with a ground-devouring stride, and Little Reed had a likely looking black in the running. After the first mile or so, Hawk suspected Angry Wolf’s gray was the one he had to beat. The huge stallion quickly outdistanced all his competition.

  At first Hawk held back, trying to gauge the endurance and second wind of several of the other horses in the field. The gray might tire and the black or the paint win in a last-minute blaze of speed. He had ridden in enough wild free-for-all races from Montana to Texas to know the front-runner did not always finish first. In this case, with nearly two dozen horses to consider, anything could happen. The gray was holding on to the lead with dogged tenacity and showing no signs of tiring. Hawk inched closer and waited.

  It would feel good to beat Angry Wolf, a childhood companion whose bullying and hateful nature had made a younger half-blooded boy's life a misery. Yes, Hawk would relish this victory. He had also noted the way his old foe looked at the lovely green-eyed maiden before the race. She did not fa
vor the big Cheyenne, but instead cast her eyes on Hawk. The win would be doubly sweetened if he could make it. As they neared the homestretch, he gave Redskin a quick rake with his moccasined feet, and the big bay plunged forward in a sudden lunge that pulled him abreast of the gray.

  Angry Wolf was laughing as he sighted the end of the race, a stand of alders by the banks of the Tongue River. When he saw Hawk and Redskin out of the corner of his eye, he let out a guttural oath and leaned forward to whip his horse with a rawhide strip, urging it to greater speed. The long, sharp leather lashed out, narrowly missing Hawk and his mount as well. Angry Wolf never did play fair, Hawk remembered grimly.

  However, flaying his horse did not help Angry Wolf. By the time they neared the alders, Hawk pulled into the lead and the bay flashed by the crowd of waiting onlookers. The gray with his sullen rider came in second, several lengths behind the bay.

  As he slid smoothly off Redskin, Hawk was greeted by Iron Heart, pride worn like a banner across his face. “You have done well, Hunting Hawk. I am pleased.”

  He was not the only one pleased. Wind Song stood near the edge of the crowd, looking at Hawk's sweat-soaked body as he gratefully took the soft cloth proffered by the old man and began to towel off his face, neck, and upper torso.

  Her hypnotic gaze was broken when Angry Wolf came stalking up to her. He could see where her eyes were turned. “So you look on the half-blood. He is not Cheyenne. He will not stay with our people. Like the summer rains, he comes and goes without warning. Best beware lest you lose your chastity to his spiderish ways and end up on the prairie!”

  At this, Wind Song let out a furious gasp of indignation. Casting a woman out on the prairie was a degrading punishment reserved for women caught in repeated adultery, almost unheard of in their band. Without speaking a word to the hateful man, she proudly walked away to rejoin several of her young women friends and her little sister. She held her head high to show her disdain for his filthy suggestion.