Sacred Is the Wind (41 page)

Morbitzer nodded and tipped his hat as he rode past Kate Madison.

“Good morning, Captain. May I have a word with you?” she called out.

“Hardly the proper time, madam. I am about to engage the enemy in battle.”

“One man?” Kate asked, incredulous.

“One man who has boasted he will ride through our ranks,” the captain replied. He removed his hat and wiped the perspiration from his face. “He has offered an insult we cannot let pass.” Morbitzer shrugged. “I wouldn't worry, Doctor Madison. I doubt any of this will come off. He's up there and he can plainly see the force I have arrayed against him.” He looked at Michael, fixing the wounded man in a steely stare. “No doubt we will have to ride up there and flush him out. Only a fool would attack us. A fool or a madman, and I doubt he is either of those.” Morbitzer turned to Jubal Bragg. “I'd keep well back, Mr. Bragg. This is government business, after all.”

“I have come to bear witness to the final act, Captain Morbitzer, and wish to take no part in the play.” Jubal Bragg shaded his eyes and peered at the distant hill. “He's up on the top, all right.” He touched the brim of his hat and nodded to Kate and the captain, ignored Michael and Sabbath McKean. He rode at a trot over to a place well away from the crowd of Cheyenne and between them and the troopers. Sabbath noticed as Bragg checked the loads on his matched revolvers.

“He may not take a part but he sure has had more than his share in the writing of the script,” said McKean.

“Marshal, you can take your place with my command in the center of the line,” Morbitzer suggested.

“Not hardly,” said Sabbath. “I came to say good-bye to the younker here.”

“But you are sworn to uphold the law!” Morbitzer's tone betrayed his nervousness. He had counted on keeping the old Indian fighter nearby, just in case.

“And murder ain't my idea of upholding law. Henry, I cannot stop you, 'cause you got your heart set on being a big hero today. But I sure don't intend to see you through it.” He turned his back on the unnerved young officer and leaned over to shake Michael's hand. He kissed Kate's in a gesture of time-honored gallantry.

“McKean, you are a United States marshal and by the authority of the badge you wear it is your duty …” Sabbath swung his horse around. A look from McKean and the captain's voice faded. The marshal's horse danced skittishly, clouds of dust drifted up from beneath the pawing hooves. Sabbath ripped the badge from his coat and tossed it on the ground in front of the startled captain. That was his answer to the officer. Then Sabbath looked back at Michael.

“Should have done that long ago. Mighty heavy for such a tiny piece of metal. Somewhere …” He lifted his eyes to the horizon, his right hand absentmindedly tugging on the curled tips of his mustache. Now his expression grew dreamy as he spoke. “Somewhere I think I will find me a mountain I ain't seen the other side of yet.” He sighed in satisfaction.

“Good luck, Sabbath McKean,” said Michael. And Kate said, “Godspeed.”

“I only wish I could tell your pa that I …” Sabbath's voice trailed off. “Ah hell, I reckon he knows.” The ex-marshal looked over at Captain Morbitzer. “Tell me, bucko, you know what counting coup is?”

Morbitzer shook his head no.

Sabbath grinned. “I got a feeling you're about to find out.” He touched his heels to his gelding's flanks and rode off toward the west, toward the dimly visible peaks of the snow-tipped Absarokas. Not once did he look back.

“Soon,” Michael whispered to himself. Golden was the valley and azure the sky. A morning mist rose with coming warmth, diaphanous waves spread out from Lame Deer Creek to lap against the base of the hills, turning the soldiers into ranks of disembodied specters and all but obscuring the throng of Indian and white spectators gathered at the north end of the valley. Michael etched the moment in his memory, locking the scene away in his heart and mind, creating for himself a reservoir of inspiration upon which he would later draw.

He memorized the silence; for all the formidable numbers gathered in the valley, hardly a sound could be heard as the mist rose unannounced, dampening what sound there was, horses cropping the earth, the jingle of traces and creak of leather harness.

“He expected the mist to rise. That's what he's been waiting for. My father might even have a chance now,” Michael said, reaching for Kate, who drew closer to him.

“I wish it could be stopped,” she said, staring at the columns of soldiers, their carbines drawn. The tension from so many inexperienced troopers was infectious. Kate felt her flesh grow icy, she could count each beat of her heart.

“Oh, Michael, is there nothing you can do?”

“Only watch. Here is the father I have known, this one who waits to ride into battle. Now I know him. And I think I understand him. And these are his children. All of us. He has always fought … for us.”

“And now we do not need him anymore, the Morning Star people have no more use for warriors,” Kate said, realizing what was about to happen, that Panther Burn was leaving his legacy indelibly etched in the minds of the onlookers. The Cheyenne had come to see Panther Burn, last of the war chiefs. And he intended to give them something to remember. Beside her, Michael straightened, his body hardened; he reached out to steady himself on her shoulder. And when he spoke, his voice was for her ears only.

“Now!” came his sharp whisper.

In the church, Father Hillary knelt in the pew closest to the altar. The hardwood kneeler bruised his knees but he ignored the discomfort. He prayed for the Cheyenne, for the soldiers gathered to do what they must, he prayed for peace … and for justice. At the back of the church blind old Joshua Beartusk stood by the bell rope, listening to the silence. Though he could not see, his hand found the rope, for he had memorized the steps to the bells. He always rang them on ration Friday to signal the families of the Cheyenne to come into the settlement to receive their allotted portion of staples from the United States government. Today he summoned them for another reason. He closed his fists around the rope and gave a mighty tug, grunting from the exertion as he pulled down. And with each tolling of the bell, his heart broke, little by little. And yet, in a way, his was a selfish sorrow. Joshua Bear-tusk wished that just for today the All-Father had returned an old man's sight so that he could ride with his nephew to glory.

Panther Burn lifted his eyes skyward. A tiny speck of shadow flashed across the sun, swirled lower, became a hawk. A gust of wind rushed up from the valley, the grasses on the hillside bowed in its passing. The hawk, the wind, the mist below were good signs. It was time.

Panther Burn stood in the rawhide stirrups and raised his spear and shield aloft as he loosed a wild cry that rang out over the valley. Zachariah added his voice to the war chief's and then the Cheyenne gathered in the valley took up the cry, for they had listened and heard with their hearts and remembered when the earth trembled beneath the great herds of buffalo, remembered when the Cheyenne were the lords of the plains, roaming at will from the Badlands to the Continental Divide, remembered a past that would never come again except in this one last instant when a man called Panther Burn, who had refused to live “tame,” rode the warpath for them all.

The soldiers in the valley looked around nervously and realized how outnumbered they really were. Tyrell Gude eased back in his carriage and muttered to himself, “Lord help us.” Jubal Bragg drew one of his Smith and Wessons. Come what may, he resolved to stand his ground. He would not run again.

A soldier in the front column loosed a shot from his carbine and young Captain Morbitzer drew erect in the saddle to spy the culprit. But a number of the soldiers followed suit. They levered shot after shot despite the fact that the men on the hill were out of range.

“Hold your fire,” Morbitzer shouted, but his voice was drowned out by yet another fusillade as more of the troopers, sparked into action by the first gunshot, opened up with their Winchesters. Then a chorus of war yells erupted on every side and the captain turned in time to see the two braves on Squaw Hill, three hundred yards away, start down.

Panther Burn and Zachariah rode at a gallop, risking broken necks as they covered the slope, their horses slipping, regaining their stances, and always guided by the riders' excellent horsemanship. The animals leaped the final few yards into the mist that layered the valley floor. The water droplets caught the sunlight until all the world wore a golden mantle of blinding brilliance. Henry Morbitzer ceased trying to issue orders. He yanked his Colt revolver from his holster and opened fire into the mist with his men. Carbines emptied. Troopers clawed at their belts for cartridges and thumbed the shells into their carbines and opened fire again, working the levers of their guns as quickly as they could. And back within the reaches of the forest, Rebecca paused in her prayer-song where she sat in the shade of the pines and listened to the roaring guns like thunder in the hills. She closed her eyes, and both hands clasped around the pouch dangling from her throat, she resumed her song asking of the All-Father not that Panther Burn be spared but that he accomplish what he needed to, even if it cost him his life.

Panther Burn knew Rebecca was with him and as he rode at a gallop through the mist his heart burned with pride and the sound of the guns did not frighten him and in that moment he feared neither life nor death because he was one with the Circle now, he had heard his name whispered in the Sacred Wind, and who was there to stand against him?

The mist closed around him, shifted blindingly. But Panther Burn knew there was only one direction to ride, to the thunder of the guns and the destiny that awaited him. Bullets sliced the air around him, burned flesh; something slammed into his side. Ignore it. Something battered his shield, shattered his knee. Ignore it. No pain, his eyes ablaze, his soul on fire, what was pain to such a man? Three hundred yards. Two hundred. A hundred. Scream defiance. Kill me if you can,
ve-ho-e
. Zachariah's horse stumbled and collapsed and Zachariah went sprawling head over heels. He rolled to his feet and emptied his rifle at the troops. Another five slugs lifted him into the air and slammed him backward. He cried out to Panther Burn, who heard but could not stop. Nor did Zachariah want him to. Dying, the Cheyenne brave forced himself upright, wiped the blood from his eyes, and watched as Panther Burn charged headlong into the gunfire. No one could stand against such firepower. No man. But perhaps a legend. Then Zachariah shuddered as bullets continued to pelt him. He tried to endure, to cling to life.
“Hena-haanehe”
, he groaned.
This is the end
. And died, sitting upright, legs outstretched, facing the ranks of troopers who had killed him.

The mist parted fifty yards from the soldiers. Panther Burn jabbed his spear point into the flanks of his war horse and the animal lunged to even greater speed. The acrid smoke from the rifles of the soldiers stung the warrior's nostrils but the gunfire lessened as the troopers struggled to reload. Several of the troopers in their haste had jammed their carbines and now had to dig the cartridges out of the blocked breeches. Forty yards, thirty, twenty—reach their lines and the men would have to fire at themselves. Blood was in his mouth. He spat it out.
All-Father, give me the strength
. Ten yards and then the panther was among them. Panther Burn loosed a shrill, bone-chilling shriek like a man possessed and the soldiers massed before him threw down their weapons and spurred their horses out of the way, wanting no part of this demon warrior. Captain Henry Morbitzer all by his lonesome in the middle of his vanishing ranks of men crammed a couple, of shells into the cylinder of his revolver and looked up as Panther Burn bore down on him. The spear tip loomed like the scythe of death itself. The captain tugged sharply on his reins, his horse reared and tossed the young captain off. Henry Morbitzer landed on a rock the size of a melon and knocked the breath out of himself. He struggled to retrieve the gun he had dropped. The troopers to either side held their fire for fear of hitting their commanding officer: A shadow fell across Morbitzer and he looked up to see the Cheyenne war chief about to impale him.

“Sweet Jesus!” the young officer shouted, and tried to dodge. But it was Panther Burn who saved him. At the last possible second the Cheyenne warrior reversed his spear and tapped the captain on the head and galloped past, counting coup. Two soldiers spurred their horses to block the Cheyenne, but Panther Burn burst through their midst batting one aside with his shield and counting coup on the other with the shaft of his spear. He struck the trooper hard enough to stun the man and sent him tumbling from the saddle. No one remained to stop him. Panther Burn roared in triumph as he cleared the line of soldiers, riding through them as he had promised he would do. A cheer rose up to either side, a cry of triumph that grew louder than all the gunfire. But Panther Burn never allowed his horse to break stride. A tug and the painted gelding, itself bleeding from half a dozen wounds, bore down on the man who had waited behind these hundred soldiers, who had come to see his nightmares destroyed forever.

“Bragg!” Panther Burn shouted as he charged. He was dying, his strength had begun to fade. But he had to hold on. “Braaaaggg!”

Jubal Bragg grew pale. The troopers were no help now, for they would have to fire directly at both men to stop the Cheyenne. But in his last desperate moments, Jubal Bragg had found his courage.

“I'll kill you. By my hand, I swear it, you will die!” he yelled and aimed his Smith and Wesson .45.

Bragg fired. Panther Burn drew closer, trailing blood.

Bragg fired again. And Panther Burn lowered the point of the lance. Closer came the lance with its tip of sharpened stone.

Fired. Again. Again. Again to no avail. Panther Burn's will to live was stronger than death.