Sacred Is the Wind (23 page)

Bragg drew the saber at his side. And as the black clouds spilled toward them and thunder shook the hills, Bragg stood in his stirrups and howled above the wind.

“So be it!”

Suddenly Big Marley lunged across and snatched the saber out of the colonel's grasp and tore the officer's rein from his hand. Marley drove his heels into the flanks of his own mount, a big prairie-bred roan, and the animal charged forward out of the formation of soldiers. Loosing his own wild yell, Marley swung the saber in an arc overhead as he raced down the valley, offering himself in battle in the place of Jubal Bragg. The colonel shouted for him to come back. Marley ignored him. In truth, he could no longer hear anything but the rushing wind and his own savage cry as his heart leaped with the prospect of battle.

Panther Burn saw the man burst from the safety of his companions. The brave shouted for him to come and meet his death. He raised the Hawken and sighted through the rain and squeezed the trigger just as a clap of thunder shattered his concentration. Black smoke belched from the barrel, to be swept away by the wind. Marley came on. From beneath the ledge, Rebecca watched, a prayer-song on her trembling lips.

Fifty yards. Panther Burn reached for his powder horn. Forty. Poured a charge down the barrel.
All-Father, hear me. Send the thunder spirit
. Thirty yards. Panther Burn tapped the charge, rammed ball and patch down the barrel. Twenty.
All-Father, I have made the magic fire
. Ten. Panther Burn searched the pouch at his side for a percussion cap. Rebecca sang into the flames and in the coals saw the eyes of the spirit-wolf. Five yards. Panther Burn fit the cap over the nipple, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The hammer struck the cap. And nothing happened. Marley yelled in triumph.

“I have you now!”

The saber sliced down as Panther Burn leaped in front of the roan. The brave's momentum carried him to the end of his tether and the rawhide rope fastened to the ground pin pulled taut, tripping the roan in its headlong charge. Panther Burn cried out as the rope bit into his waist. The horse buckled and went down, hurling Marley head over heels. Panther Burn landed on his back, rolled to his feet as the full force of the storm hit and a wall of clouds rolled down the valley. The unusually warm, humid air clashing with the cold created a violent wind. Panther Burn could make out the roan on its back rolling over and pawing the air with its broken legs. The Northern Cheyenne heard a shriek of pain and through the ever-thickening sheets of rain glimpsed Big Marley pulling himself along the ground, a length of steel blade protruding from his thigh where he had landed on the saber and shattered the blade, skewering himself. Picking up the Hawken, he replaced the defective cap. He had been freed from his dog pin, but resolved to drive it in again. He staggered out toward the circle but had taken only a few steps when a chunk of ice the size of his fist plowed into the earth, followed by another the size of his skull. Rebecca shouted his name, hoping he heard her above the din. She could see only a few feet into the downpour as day became night before the unleashed fury of the freak storm. Caught in a monstrous updraft, the hail continued to gain in mass before breaking free of the wind's centrifugal force, jettisoned with the velocity of an artillery shell. Round chunks, flat sheet ice, irregular and lethal fragments with glazed jagged surfaces shattered branches, exploded against granite boulders, drummed a deafening cadence upon the earth. Rebecca covered her ears and called out once more, losing heart. Then, without warning, triumph. Panther Burn leaped out of the storm's deadly grasp and rolled across the coals into Rebecca's arms. The Thunderbird had spared him. Not so the men of Bragg's Militia. The hailstorm struck just as the colonel ordered his bugler to sound the charge. A chunk of ice caved in the man's skull, cutting short his bugle's cry. Another hailstone fractured Jubal's collarbone and knocked him out of the saddle. He caught the stirrup of his horse and hung on as the animal followed the others to the safety of the trees. The soldiers, their discipline broken by nature's awesome attack, wheeled their mounts toward the forested hillside nearest them. Riders toppled from horseback, horses reared, pawing the air, neighed in terror. Horses fell screaming to earth, literally beaten to death, leaving their battered and wounded riders to burrow beneath the dead or crippled animals. Shocked and suffering, Jubal Bragg's troops surrendered to pandemonium.

The storm had lost it fury and become a steady hard downpour through which Jubal Bragg stumbled as he made his way up the valley. His numbed mind assessed the damage to his command—what was left of it. The valley floor was littered with dead and wounded soldiers and their mounts. The colonel gasped as the pain from his broken collarbone knifed the length of his weary frame. He recognized the dead, each by name … Hec Knowles, young Rutledge, and others. He stumbled past them. A soldier called out to him in a voice thick with pain. Then the shadow of a horseman fell across him in the watery gray light.

“I am leaving,
ve-ho-e
,” James Broken Knife said. Blood trickled down from a nasty bruise on his temple. The skin was beginning to crack and swell. “The
maiyun
have spoken this day. And I have heard enough.” Bragg did not answer but continued past the Cheyenne renegade. He ignored the sound of fading hoofbeats as the brave rode off into the downpour. Bragg drew his revolver, and reaching the opposite end of the valley, spied the rained-out remnants of the medicine fire. Bragg thumbed a shot into the shadows beneath the granite outcropping. The revolver's recoil caused a fresh onslaught of white-hot pain to course through his body. He grimaced in agony and emptied his revolver. The gunshots echoed down the hills.

“They're gone, Colonel,” a weak voice said from behind him. Bragg spun around as Marley crawled toward him across the mud, a length of steel still jutting from his thigh.

“I thought you were dead,” Bragg said, stumbling toward the sergeant. Bragg holstered his Colt revolver and with his one good arm dragged Big Marley to the shelter of the granite ledge. Both men rested, out of the rain now, their backs against stone, legs splayed upon the sheltered earth.

“Bad enough you steal my saber, then you had to go and break it,” Bragg said.

“Yes sir,” Marley gasped. “Sorry.” He stared at his butchered flesh and the bloodstain spreading across his trouser leg. “What now? We can't go on—” Marley sucked in his breath as the pain seared him. “Is it over?” he asked.

Bragg chuckled. It was a mirthless sound, full of pain, but not defeat.

Another time.

Another place.

He could wait.

“It has only begun, my friend,” said Jubal Bragg. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain, to the distant, taunting wind. “Only begun.”

“I thought you were dead. Both of you,” said Sabbath McKean as he held out his hand to take the reins from Rebecca as she walked her newfound mount up the last few yards of hillside. Panther Burn, leading his own horse, followed about half a dozen yards back. “Never seen a storm like that. Heard tell of 'em. Never seen one.” The buckskin-clad scout helped Rebecca over the rise. The storm had passed, leaving in its wake recurring showers as the north wind sent the gray clouds rushing overhead. The ground was slick and much too treacherous for a man to risk his neck on horseback. Panther Burn gained the summit and walked along the ridge toward the others he had risked his life for. They seemed to take heart on seeing him. No longer did they mistrust the Northerner. He had become their salvation. They might be frightened, but the people from the Warbonnet would follow him, wherever he might lead. Zachariah led Joshua Beartusk over to his nephew. The blind man reached up and touched Panther Burn's face. Then Joshua put his arms around the younger man and hugged him. Rebecca drew close, as if loath to be any farther from Panther Burn's side. Joshua turned his blind eyes toward her, a knowing expression on his face.

“You are indeed your mother's daughter,” he said, nodding.

She reached out and placed her hand on his arm.

“We better get a move on,” Sabbath called out. “Bragg will be—”

“It is finished. At least for now,” Panther Burn replied.

“I don't understand,” Sabbath said, scratching at his bearded jawline.

“You have been a friend, Sabbath McKean. But you are still a
ve-ho-e
. You will never understand.” Panther Burn glanced at Rebecca, his expression tender, yet gravely respectful. Then he smiled and turned toward the north. His confidence was infectious. Many of the South-em Cheyenne rose with their faces to the wind. Children could be heard playing in the meadow below.

“The thunder spirit has scattered the soldiers like leaves in the wind. We need fear them no longer,” Panther Burn said, his words carrying to one and all. “Your new people sit and sing by their cookfires in the shadow of Spirit Mountain. They wait for us. For you. What has been lost will be found. What has been wronged will be avenged. What has been hurt will be healed. And the weary shall find rest.” He raised his arms and lifted his gaze to the storm-swept heavens. “I will bring you home!” The word reverberated among the hills, echoing in beauty a most beautiful word.

Home … home … home …

12

February 1866

Montana Territory

I
n fire, in flames, are memories captured. Images of mind and soul are all we have and all we will be, from frightened hearts to hearts that are free. Memories are the warmth against a winter's tale of chill winds and frost-laden trees and days of meager provisions, when the wood burns low. Memories warm the soul. Love is never beyond reach, as long as a flame burns, as long as memory lives.

In the time of
ho-koneneheso-esehe
, “the little hard-face moon,” Rebecca turned her features to the campfire burning close at hand. She was too sore and too happy to sleep. She nestled deep beneath the buffalo robe, felt her day-old son stir where he lay sleeping upon her breast. She grew still, fearing to wake him, yet wanting to rouse him too, for her breasts were full and had begun to ache. Yes, she would have to wake him soon. But not now, not in this quiet time of memory.

She closed her eyes and saw again—this time in an overview, as if she had become a mourning dove circling the camp in the azure sky above—the arrival of the South-em Cheyenne as the bone-weary handful of survivors entered the great circle of lodges and tipis that made up the village of the Morning Star people. Looming over the village, casting its reflection upon the Yellowstone River, Spirit Mountain, wreathed in its tendrils of mist, echoed the cries of welcome as the newcomers were recognized and brought into the center of the village. The voice of Joshua Beartusk rang out and filled the air with his tale of tragedy and triumph. The Southern Cheyenne were no more. But these few still lived. The people of the War-bonnet were destroyed, yet a few lived and had been led out of the fields of despair by Panther Burn … the very same Panther Burn, Yellow Eagle's son, who had left in dishonor. And Yellow Eagle was there along with the other elders of the tribe, the chiefs of the Dog Soldier, the Red Shield, the Fox, and the Bowstring societies. Men, women, and children came from the furthermost reaches of the Great Circle to hear the tale, to share the sorrow, to rejoice that not all had been lost, that the one who once was shamed had redeemed himself by the grace of the All-Father. And after Joshua finished, silence reigned over the village as everyone turned toward the hill to the south to watch as Panther Burn, alone now, erect and proud, walked his mountain pony along the banks of the Yellowstone and entered the Circle. His long black hair hung down his back and the afternoon sunlight bathed him in its golden glow. He looked neither left nor right, but kept his eyes fixed on the older braves gathered at the ceremonial fire which was always kept burning in the center of the village. His father was there, and others he recognized: Crow Killer, Three Coups, Lone Bear, and Tall Dancer, father of Little Coyote and High Walker, friends long dead.

Panther Burn paused alongside Rebecca, who waited on horseback, and for the first time shifted his gaze. She was ready. He needed no words. She followed him. The two rode together past the Southern Cheyenne, past Joshua and Zachariah, who looked as though he Wanted to follow more than anything in the world. Only Joshua's hand on the boy's shoulder held him back.

Panther Burn and Rebecca dismounted before his father. Their horses, made nervous by the crowd, pawed the earth and shook their manes. The elders waited for Panther Burn to speak. Though Yellow Eagle remained as silent as the other chiefs, he could not conceal the pride he felt for what his son had accomplished, bringing the surviving Southern Cheyenne from the gutted remains of their village to safety here by the Yellowstone. His son, the dishonored one, had done this. Panther Burn glanced around, studying the Cheyenne who gathered with increasing number as young women returned from root gathering, the children from the fields, young braves from tending horses. At last, Panther Burn discovered the face he had been seeking. Crescent Moon worked her way through the crowd of Cheyenne. A mother's love radiated from her. Panther Burn returned his attention to the tribal elders as the father of Little Coyote and High Walker stepped forward.

“We pray that the All-Father might find us worthy to use,” Tall Dancer said. He spoke softly, yet the tones of his eloquence carried over the gathering. “My sons are dead. For this I blamed you, Panther Burn. For this, in my grief, would I have driven you from the village. I was glad when you left us.” Tall Dancer paused, cleared his throat. He brushed his long unadorned black hair away from his face. Other than his unusual height, he seemed rather unexceptional in his greasy buckskins and worn leggings. But all held him in reverence. He was the chief arrowmaker of the village and it was said his shafts never missed their mark, so true did they fly. “Now you have brought us our brothers and sisters from the south, from the shadows of death you have brought them life. You have walked the great circle. Truly the All-Father has brought you back to us. I welcome you, Panther Burn, son of Yellow Eagle.” Tall Dancer drew closer and embraced Panther Burn. The crowd of Northern Cheyenne cried out in approval and as the ceremonial drums began to toll rhythmically for the massacred men, women, and children by the Warbonnet, in contrast, cries of jubilation erupted as the surviving Southern Cheyenne were swept away by Northern families eager to take these homeless ones into their lodges. Only Panther Burn and Rebecca, Joshua, Zachariah, and Sabbath McKean remained in the center of the village.