Brothers of the Buffalo Page 31

  He sat in front of his mother’s lodge. There was nothing else to do.

  But at least, he thought, we have some food. At least no one is chasing us and trying to kill us. Perhaps we are finally safe.

  Or perhaps not.

  Armed ve’hoe soldiers were marching into the camp.

  “All men,” they shouted. “All men!”

  Wolf was pulled to his feet, pushed by a rifle barrel thrust into the middle of his back. All around him other men are being pushed ahead.

  “We have done nothing wrong. Where are you taking us?” a young man next to Wolf shouted. His name was Black Horse.

  In answer, Black Horse was pushed harder. Women and children were crying. Some held out their hands as if to pull their husbands and sons back to them. But no one resisted. What good would it do? Everyone wondered what was about to happen. Would they be herded together and then shot like the horses had been at Palo Duro?

  Wolf saw something ahead. A large group of ve’hoe soldiers had gathered around a tent that had just been set up. The Cheyenne men were pushed inside the circle made by those white soldiers. A dark-skinned man came toward them. It was the Mexican man named Romero. He had long acted as an interpreter. He did not speak Cheyenne all that well. But everyone knew him to be a good man. They knew he tried to do his best.

  Wolf had spoken often with Romero. He was beginning to consider him a friend. There was a worried look on the interpreter’s face. Still, his voice was steady as he spoke.

  “Ovana’xaeotse’. Calm down. Must all form line.”

  The men did the best they could to move into a line. It was a long one, made up of all the men and teenage boys from the Cheyenne camp.

  One of the white soldier chiefs called out something. Two big hairy soldiers stepped forward and strode up purposefully to the line. They went straight to the place where Medicine Water stood. Without hesitating, they grabbed his arms. They pulled him so quickly out of the line that his feet scraped along the ground.

  “What are they doing?” Medicine Water cried to Romero.

  The Mexican interpreter shook his head. There was nothing he could do. The soldiers dragged Medicine Water to the door of that new tent and shoved him inside. Romero walked over to wait outside the closed flap.

  Are they going to beat him in there? Torture him?

  But Medicine Water was not in the tent long enough to be tortured. The two big soldiers shouldered their way out. They held Medicine Water even more roughly than before. They lifted him up so high that his toes could not touch the ground and carried him to face the long line of uncertain Cheyennes. They lowered him enough so that he could stand. But they did not let go of his arms. Medicine Water stood there on weak legs. He was shaking. He stared at the tent they had just dragged him from.

  What fearful sight is in there?

  The flap opened. Three people came out. One of them was the red-faced soldier chief Neill. His expression was grim as death. The other two were young white women. They wore cloaks as red as blood and hats with tall plumes. They approached the long line of Cheyenne men. None of the men recognized them at first. But some of the Cheyenne women did. They had followed as the men were dragged away and were watching from a little rise above them. They knew those two white women right away, despite their new clothing.

  “Ah-ah-ah-ah! My daughter!” the wife of Long Back cried out.

  That was when Wolf realized who they were. They were the two older white sisters who had been captives. Gah-dlin and Tso-fia.

  Gah-dlin heard that cry. Wolf could tell by the way she stiffened for a moment. Maybe she remembered how well Long Back and his wife had treated her. They had adopted her as their daughter to protect her from Mochi.

  But Gah-dlin did not turn toward Long Back’s wife. She and her sister kept their eyes straight ahead. Their faces stayed still as stone as they walked toward the line of men.

  “They are going to choose which of our men are to be killed,” another woman shouted. It was Medicine Water’s wife, Mochi. As one, all of the women except for Mochi began to moan and weep. They were fearful of what was about to happen.

  Lieutenant Colonel Neill walked by the side of the two sisters. He had a piece of paper in his hand. But he was unsteady on his feet, and as he passed, Wolf could smell the whiskey on the white soldier chief’s breath. His face was angry as a storm cloud. Another white man not in uniform walked up to join him. It was not Miles, the Indian agent. It was his assistant, a man whose name Wolf had not heard.

  Romero came over to stand not far from Wolf. He whispered something out of the corner of his mouth. For a moment Wolf did not understand what had been said. Then it came to him.

  They choose now.

  The sisters walked down the long line of Cheyennes, peering closely at first one man and then another. Then Gah-dlin stopped. She pointed her hand at Rising Bull. When she spoke her voice was loud and shook with emotion.

  “She say he one help kill father,” Romero whispered.

  Neill barked an order. Two more soldiers stepped forward and marched Rising Bull over to stand by Medicine Water.

  Once again, the sisters started walking. Then Gah-dlin stopped in front of Wolf. It seemed as if she was about to reach out her hand to touch him. Seeing her pause, several of the soldiers started forward, ready to pull him from the line.

  Wolf looked up and caught her eyes. There was recognition in her gaze. But there was no anger. She turned back toward the soldiers and spoke a few words. The soldiers stepped back.

  “She say you not one,” Romero said softly in Cheyenne.

  When the two red-cloaked young women had finished walking up and down the line, they had singled out no one other than Medicine Water and Rising Bull. Still red faced, Lieutenant Colonel Neill had asked them a question.

  “Whose lodge did you stay in?”

  In reply, Gah-dlin had pointed out Long Back. She had looked upset when Long Back was grabbed and taken over to stand by Medicine Water. But because she had identified him, he was now in the punishment line.

  Then the sisters walked away from the men and pointed out Mochi among the women. Mochi had not turned away or tried to run. She had simply walked over to stand beside Medicine Water. Mochi’s face was defiant as she stood by her husband. He still looked frightened, but her eyes were hard as black stones. It had not been hard for the sisters to pick her out. As soon as her husband was brought out of the tent and made to stand under guard, Mochi had moved up in front of all the women. Her arms folded, she had waited defiantly. She had not been wailing or crying like some of the others. She had been ready to share whatever punishment was to be given her husband.

  Only four people had been identified. It was not enough to satisfy Neill. He looked angrier than before. He spoke to the two young women, his voice slurred by the whiskey.

  Wolf watched, wondering what would happen next. Black Horse, who was standing to his right, tilted his head in Wolf’s direction. The sun had moved far across the sky since they were first lined up. Black Horse was swaying slightly. His voice was dry as he whispered through cracked lips.

  “I think Red-face wants them to choose more. But they will not choose innocent men like you and me.”

  Even as Black Horse softly spoke those words Tso-fia and Gah-dlin shook their heads. They walked away from Neill and went back into the tent.

  “He say pick more, they say no. They done,” Romero whispered from behind Wolf.

  Neill turned back toward the Cheyenne men. He held up the paper in his hands. Again he growled words so slurred with whiskey that Wolf could not understand them.

  “No good,” Romero said. “Need thirty-three men.”

  The red-faced lieutenant studied his list. Then he called out names. They were not the names of men who had done bad things. They were the names of leaders, of honorable men who spoke first for peace.

  “Gray Head! Lean Bear! Heap of Birds! Eagle Head!”

  Each man stepped forward when his name was calle
d. Each walked with quiet dignity, head held up. Each joined those who were to be punished. Eight now. Still not enough to fill Red-face Neill’s list.

  Neill shouted out more barking words. The two white soldiers holding Medicine Water pulled him. Neill leaned close to Medicine Water’s face. Then the lieutenant turned. He motioned to Romero.

  “Come,” Neill growled. “Translate.”

  Then he began to shout words at Medicine Water. Romero translated them into Cheyenne loud enough for all to hear.

  “Medicine Water, you point out men who were with you. Now! Point out ones who kills ve’hoes! Men who takes horses! Men who burns wagons! Do now or we punish you bad.”

  Sweat formed on Medicine Water’s brow. He nodded. The two soldiers let go of his arms. Medicine Water began his own walk along the line. He looked down as he did so. With his left hand on his forehead, he reached out with his right hand. He touched the shoulder of one man after another.

  Lame Man, Chief Killer, Bear’s Heart, Hailstone, Big Moccasin. All of them had been with him during the attack on the German family. Left Hand, Bear Killer, Soaring Eagle. Those three had taken part in the killing of a white man near Fort Wallace last year.

  Then Medicine Water stopped. Red-face Neill snarled more dog words at him. Medicine Water shook his head.

  “Hena’haahnehe,” Medicine Water said in a soft voice.

  “He say,” Romero translated, “that is it. Finished.”

  Seventeen. Much fewer than the thirty-three the paper had told him to take. The lieutenant shouted and waved his arms. But Medicine Water did not look up at him.

  Perhaps, Wolf thought, I will not be among those chosen to be killed after all.

  It was growing dark. Wolf no longer felt his legs beneath him. He had been standing still a long time, longer than he had ever stood without moving. He looked over at Black Horse. He, too, looked ready to collapse. But the look on his face was hopeful.

  Red-face Neill was unsteady, too. He swayed in the growing dark like a tree being moved by the wind. He staggered forward a step. Then he caught himself. He nodded, straightened his shoulders. Once again he barked out words. Then he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand and walked away.

  More ve’hoe soldiers stepped up. They moved down the line and pointed fingers at one man after another as if counting horses or cows. One of them tapped Wolf’s shoulder. Another placed his palm on Black Horse’s chest. The two of them were grabbed. Next to them other men were being pulled out. As they were marched toward the line of condemned men, Romero spoke to Wolf.

  “I sorry,” Romero said in Cheyenne. “He say just cut off sixteen from right of line.”

  Death went to the Sinner’s house.

  Come and go with me, Death said.

  And the Sinner cried out, I’m not ready to go.

  I got no traveling shoes.

  Death went to the Gambler’s house.

  Come and go with me, Death said.

  And the Gambler cried out,

  I’m not ready to go. I got no traveling shoes.

  Death went to the Preacher’s house.

  Come and go with me, Death said.

  And the preacher cried out, I am ready to go.

  I have got my traveling shoes.

  And Old Death, he said,

  Preacher, I will see you later.

  THE FAT HITS THE FIRE

  Hampton Academy

  March 3, 1875

  My dear Washington,

  I trust that you are well. I received your last letter. It was as fine an epistle as any maid ever received from her knight. Some of your words are pure poetry.

  Be assured that I am tip-top and as happy as can be. Indeed, I am more pleased with my life as a student than I had dreamt I would be. Each day in classes new vistas open to me, and I feel as the poet Keats must have felt on his peak in Darien.

  The rules are quite strict about the separation of the male and female students. We have our own dormitory. So you need not worry about some dusky Othello stealing my heart, my dear friend. Of course that would not happen under any circumstance.

  Now we must each follow our paths until they come together, as I know they shall, in the future we can share together. You shall pursue your life as a cavalryman and I as a student. Though I foresee a time when the student life shall also be yours.

  Oh, so many, many things are now possible in this new land our nation has become.

  Do you realize what it means that on March 1st, a Civil Rights Act was passed by Congress and signed into law by our president? We are now guaranteed equal rights in public places. It even prohibits the practice of excluding negroes from jury duty! Think of what this fine new law shall mean for us and for our children.

  I will close now. Take care of yourself and know you are ever in my thoughts.

  Always,

  Your Bethany

  Our children!

  Wash sat on his cot in the barracks and read those lines again. He held the letter in his hand as reverently as he’d hold a Bible. Bethany actually wrote those words. And though he had more than a year to go before his hitch in the 10th was over, a whole new future suddenly seemed so close. The thought of raising a family of his own with Bethany was not just a distant dream. It could be real. And it would be in a land where new laws meant that a black man had as many rights as any white man.

  That put so broad a smile on Wash’s face that Josh leaned over from his own cot and poked him.

  “Man,” Josh said, “you look like the old cat that swallowed the canary bird. Why you so happy?”

  Before Wash could answer, Charley came running in.

  “They are chaining up the Cheyennes! Come on, boys. Let’s go watch the show.”

  The thirty Cheyenne men selected for the punishment of exile to far-off Florida were being led to the post blacksmith just outside the guardhouse. The 5th Infantry under Captain Andrew Bennett was in charge of the band of prisoners.

  Wash bit his lip. Those white boys of the 5th seemed bored by the goings-on. They were joking with each other, hardly even looking at their prisoners. That was a fool way to act. They might figure the downcast Indians were no more than whipped dogs. But any Buffalo Soldiers who’d chased those Cheyennes to hell knew that was far from true. Every one of those those pitiful-looking Indians was tough as leather. A hell of a lot more wolf than dog. And while you might easily tie a dog, a wolf could prove to be a whole different animal to chain.

  The thought of those men being chained troubled Wash. It brought an image to his mind, one that had been conjured up by his father’s stories of how their ancestor came to this land. Great-Grampa Hausaman placed in shackles on the banks of the River Niger and then thrown into the stinking hull of a slave ship.

  Here the one waiting to do the chaining was named Wesley. Just Wesley. That was the only name anyone ever called him. The post blacksmith, Wesley was a black man like the troopers of the 10th. But he was a civilian employee with no fighting experience, a man who knew little of Indians and seemed oblivious to the tension that Wash could feel in the way those men were holding themselves. You’d think Wesley was just about to shoe a bunch of docile old nags rather than hammer chains onto the legs of some of the fiercest fighters these plains had ever seen.

  But as the blacksmith put the chains on the first man in that line of thirty, Wash had to admit to himself that Wesley knew his job. There was a quiet economy of movement in the way Wesley worked. He handled his tools with an ease of motion that came only from long years of doing that sort of work. A skinny Cheyenne man who looked to be made of brown leather stretched over bone was brought up to the blacksmith. As Wesley tapped his hammer on the anvil with one hand, he fitted the manacle around the ankle with the other. Without looking back, he grabbed a rivet, positioned it. Then, with one swift hard hit, he drove it home.

  “Recognize that Indian just got chained?” Charley said.

  “Lean Bear?”

  “Ah-yup,” Charley nodded. “Don’t
look like much now, does he?”

  Lean Bear. One of the big chiefs. Despite his being so small and thin, he looked dignified. His back was straight. But the look on his face was such a mixture of sorrow and pride it made Wash want to cry.

  Lean Bear bent over and picked up the big iron ball linked to his leg iron as if it was no heavier than one of the baseballs the men threw around in their games at the post. Then the old chief shuffled back into line as the next man stepped up to be shackled.

  All the while Wesley kept a rhythm going with his hammer against the anvil.

  Like some old song from Africa, Wash thought.

  It made a strange sort of music along with the clanking of their chains as men shuffled off.

  Did Great-Grampa Hausaman hear this same music when he was chained and marching down to the coast where the slave ships waited, holds like open mouths, hungry to swallow him and his people?

  The knot in Wash’s stomach felt big as a fist.

  Far as Wesley was concerned, he was just doing his job.

  No irony about a black man putting slave irons on a brown-skinned man.

  Another Indian was being led up. Wesley grasped his leg to position it.

  Could it be?

  It was. That Cheyenne now having his ball and chain fastened on was a young man Wash recognized. For a moment Wash felt as if he was back in that canyon, sharing the sight of those seven buffalo disappearing like spirits into the waterfall.

  Wash blinked his eyes and the vision faded. But Wolf still stood there, his gaze now meeting Wash’s. It was like seeing the face of someone you know in the window of a train on another track, knowing you’re both about to be carried off in different directions by forces over which you have no control.

  Wolf lifted one eyebrow. It was almost as if he was about to laugh at the strangeness of it all. Wash almost raised a hand in greeting. Wolf looked down as Wesley drove in the pin to fasten the irons. Then he shuffled off, not looking back.