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Moon of Cherries Blackening 1869

“YOUR FACE IS masked with the worry of an old man, my friend,” Porcupine said.

“This camping place—I do not like it,” High-Backed Bull grumbled. With a hand he swept a gesture across their village in the narrow valley beside the springs.

Their next march would take Tall Bull’s camp of Dog Soldiers to the Buffalo Dropping River itself, that river which the white men called the Platte. From there they would cross and turn directly north for the high plains where the white man’s Medicine Road had cut deep ruts in the flesh of the earth. Beyond those plains only a matter of but a few days’ marches stood their sacred Bear Butte. There Tall Bull and White Horse and Porcupine would renew the flagging spirits of their warriors. They would refresh their vows and perhaps hold a sun dance. Once there, the fighting bands would have little worry of being followed by the soldier columns.

But until then Bull would worry. The soldiers were back there. Coming slowly, slowly. But coming all the same.

“Why here?” Bull asked Porcupine. “Why did Tall Bull have us stop here beside this spring?”

Porcupine shrugged. “This is the place our people have camped across many summers. At least once each year—so we know this country well. Besides, the water is good here.”

“But why stop for so long?”

“The old ones gave their approval. They told Tall Bull it was safe to camp here, safe to rest the village.”

“The rattle-talkers see no need of caution?” Bull asked, incredulous. “No need to keep on moving with the pony soldiers coming behind us?”

“No. They consulted their medicine and recommended some rest for the village. It is not so bad, Bull—not with the way we have had to drive the animals and people for far too many suns. They deserve a chance to rest, to make repairs, before we are pushed on again.”

“We will be pushed, Porcupine—the pony soldiers will push us!”

The older warrior tried a halfhearted chuckle. “You worry so for a young man. Leave that to the old ones.”

“Leave the worry to the old ones, who talk only to their stuffed owls and dried badger entrails?” Bull suddenly stood, staring down in the new sunlight at Porcupine. “It seems I can trust only to one thing anymore. To my weapons, to the sharpness of my scalping knife—to the quickness of my pony and the strength of my arms to continue making war on the white man.”

“You must relax, young one,” Porcupine answered soothingly. “I think you see the one who fathered you in the face of every white man. He—”

“I know he comes soon. He leads pony soldiers. For many winters he has betrayed my mother’s people by leading soldiers to the camps of the innocent. I know he comes, soon.”

“He is old now, Bull. Gone are his days of fighting—”

“We must move on!” Bull interrupted. Then a light crossed his face, his eyes growing wide in abrupt, exquisite excitement. “Or—we can lay a trap for the white men. To draw their soldiers in and destroy them.” He lunged for Porcupine, gripping the bewildered war chief’s shoulders. “Say yes—that we can lure the white men into a trap!”

Porcupine shook his head. “This is a place of rest, decided upon by the chiefs.”

Bull yanked his hands from the older warrior, feeling sickened to his stomach, doubt rattling around inside his belly the way stream-washed pebbles clattered around inside a stiffened buffalo-scrotum rattle. “You have gone soft on me while I was not looking, Porcupine.”

“The medicine men have said—”

“What they say does not change a thing. The soldiers are still behind us.”

“We are far ahead of them—and they have been moving so slowly. You saw for yourself when we have attacked—”

“This bunch of pony soldiers—they will not stop. They will keep coming, and coming. They want Tall Bull’s woman back. They want the other one too. These soldiers will not stop until they have destroyed us. Those women that Tall Bull and White Horse will not release, they will be our undoing.”

Porcupine put an arm around Bull’s shoulders, attempting to calm his young friend in some way. “The soldiers are too far behind us to attack. But if they do find us before we have crossed the river, Tall Bull has made a vow that will please your heart.”

“What is this vow of his?”

“Tall Bull has sworn that if the soldiers come—he will see that his white concubine is the first to die.”

•  •  •

“We must be damned close if you and your trackers have spotted Tall Bull’s pony herd,” Major Carr said evenly to the old plainsman, who had just brought him the momentous news, although the major’s eyes had become animated as they peered into the distance. Then he dragged the steamy wool slouch hat from his brow and wiped a damp kerchief across his retreating hairline.

“I figure it’s time we brought in them other two wings, Major,” Shad Sweete advised.