Cry of the Hawk

The Bad Face band of Oglalla did make it hard on those stupid white men. And on the two groups of soldiers groping their way around on the Rosebud and the Powder, slowly starving themselves and their horses until the great snowstorm came howling out of the north and left the riverbank littered with the stinking carcasses as soon as it warmed days later, snow melting beneath the incredibly blue skies of Indian summer.

Crazy Horse had to admit he liked this time of year the best. A season of change. It was the last time he and the other young ones had to raid and ride and romp before the coming of winter that would put the high land to sleep for many moons. Not only would the mountains be shrouded in snow, but for weeks at a time, the valleys and bluffs, the ridges and coulees would be choked with it. Rivers and creeks, springs and streams would be frozen.

And he would find himself restless and agitated, prisoner in the winter lodges once more—his spirit yearning for the freedom of the high plains.

Here in the final days of the Moon of Black Calves, the Lakota scouts had returned with news that the great soldier encampment along the Powder had finally turned south and were heading back to the fort called Laramie.

“The time has come,” Crazy Horse said, having waited for his turn to speak to the great council of warriors and advisers. “The soldiers are fleeing with what horses they have left and what wagons they can pull out of our hunting ground. I agree with Man Afraid—we no longer have to keep our warriors here to protect our villages from them. These white men are going home. Let our young men go raiding on the Holy Road one last time before Winter Man seizes the land and chokes us with cold for many moons!”

“My young friend makes sense,” agreed Young Man Afraid. “Our women already have many hides to tan, and the meat is dried for the winter moons. No more do we need to hunt. Our young men itch for one last ride. I say let it be a big one!”

Slowly the wild calls for war and raiding and white blood faded away. And eventually all faces turned toward Red Cloud’s. A proven chief, his face only beginning to seam with the lines of age and wisdom, this undisputed leader of the Bad Face band of Oglalla chose his words well.

“We will wait until the soldiers are three days’ ride south of Pumpkin Buttes.”

Crazy Horse could feel the swelling of excitement growing in the huge council lodge as Red Cloud gave his pronouncement.

“Then our warriors can sweep around the tail end of the soldier column—assured they will not turn and attack our camps as they attacked the Bear’s Arapaho village.”

“They will not,” Crazy Horse declared, watching many of the dark eyes turn his way. “The soldiers are beaten—once and for all. The white man’s army will not dare attack our mighty villages as they destroyed the Arapaho camp. The Bear was not wise, my friends. It is a very careless thing for a man to embrace peace when all around him the countryside is filled with those who hunger for war!”

13

November, 1865

“I’LL MISS YOU, Shad,” Hook said in a husky tone that scraped past the hot knot in his throat.

“Here,” Sweete said gruffly, holding out his hand. “Promised I’d give you a going-away present.”

Hook glanced at the lines of troops shuffling into formation, teamsters easing themselves down onto plank seats and the columns of cavalry escort going to saddle.

“What is it?” he asked, studying the small rawhide-wrapped ring in his palm. It had been divided into quadrants, at its center was encircled a small, smooth pebble. The rawhide strands were wrapped with flattened porcupine quills of greasy yellow, robin’s-egg blue, and a light moss green.

“Toote’s people call it a medicine wheel. This is one she made for me some time back. A pebble spoke to me beside a stream near the place where I first laid eyes on the woman. Injuns believe rocks and such things are creatures too, and talk to people.”

“You believe that?”

“I’m here to tell you that’s the certain of it.”

“This is something she made special for you—I can’t take it.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to you. Among these Indian people, everything sacred is a circle. Life itself is a great circle: from borning to dying. I’m asking you to keep this, ’cause one day you’ll return.”

“I ain’t never coming back, Shad.”

“You keep telling me that, Jonah. But there’s a great circle of all things out there—and you don’t know what will ever bring you back. All I know is, this pebble talked to me again last night. Ain’t talked to me since I first picked it up and heard it say I ought to take some ponies to a particular Cheyenne warrior so I could ask his daughter to be my wife.”

“It told you to marry Toote?”

“And this morning, after all those years, it spoke to me again. Telling me it was time for it to go with you on your journey home.”

Jonah held out the medicine wheel in his palm, self-consciously, and more than a little concerned about all the mysticism.