Ghost Dance Read online

  “Rachel is not kind,” she told me. I did not answer her. She cocked her head to one side and smiled sweetly sending a shiver down my spine. “Tell the little black boy I like his music.”

  She buried her face in the book and went back to her studies. I walked away, wishing to God I had a jug of whisky with which to drown my shame and sorrows. A verse of Byron came to me.

  They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear;

  A shudder come o'er me - Why wert thou so dear?

  They know not I knew thee - Who knew thee too well:

  Long, long shall I rue thee - Too deeply to tell.

  Chapter 8 – Indians

  The days had become dry, the rolling grasslands parching in the summer sun. In the distance was Chimney Rock, a monument of sun washed glory on the trail to Oregon and California. Bog Trotter sat astride his mighty warhorse at the crest of a hill. Sebastian Parker was beside him, his keen eyes surveying the route. They made an odd couple, the fine featured youth and the grizzled Trotter, whose face seemed as rutted as the wagon path we followed. Zenobia was suffering from gout and had stayed with the wagon. Spencer had determined to keep him company, so I had volunteered to join Sebastian and Trotter out of boredom and an attempt to clear my mind of Rachel. We had ridden several miles ahead of the immigrant train.

  “It’s a fine day,” Trotter said.

  “Too warm,” Sebastian countered.

  Trotter grimaced. “It is,” he allowed.

  The man’s obsequiousness in the presence of his employer was alternately nauseating and comedic. My distaste for the man had grown exponentially as our journey progressed. Trotter gazed up at the sun as if studying a complex equation. He grunted and passed gas.

  “We shouldn’t get too far a field from the others,” he warned.

  Sebastian eyed the old scout with disdain. “I’m sick of whining babies and belching oxen. You go back. Clayton and I will ride ahead. I want to do a bit of hunting,” he ordered.

  “There’s naught but skinny birds here,” Trotter told him.

  “I think I shall bag an antelope,” Sebastian said.

  “They ain’t none,” Trotter rejoined.

  Sebastian shot him a condescending look. “Then guide me where they are. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  “South of here,” Trotter said.

  Sebastian nodded. “Fine. Make the plan and set a time, only leave me alone.”

  Trotter grunted desultorily and turned in the direction we had come from. He see-sawed in the saddle like a ship listing at anchor as he rode away. I was happy to see him go.

  “It’s a splendid day for riding,” I pointed out as we trotted along.

  “The country’s too dry, you can’t read the tracks,” Sebastian groused.

  “I doubt we’ll starve,” I said.

  A solitary cloud drifted over the rise of hills that lay to the north, billowing like a ship’s sail. I cupped one hand over my eyes to shade them from the sun as I watched the horizon, the heat of the day and beauty of the uncomplicated spectacle filling me with awe. I thought I detected antelope at the crest of the distant bluffs. They appeared as mere specks at this distance. My eyesight was good and I continued to watch, training my concentration upon them. Sebastian was indifferent to the scenic focus of my attention, conquest over the lesser species having become his all consuming passion

  “Bird tracks,” he said, having spied the faint trace of three clawed prints in the sand.

  I continued to study the horizon, becoming convinced that the specks upon the hillside were men on horseback and not animals. I spoke unhurriedly, “There’s a party headed this way. I make it out to be six men, Indians probably, as they are bare-chested and brown skinned. They’re carrying lances. I think we should return to the train.”

  Sebastian looked up, annoyed at having his sport interrupted. “What of it?” He snapped. Grasping the stock of his long barreled rifle he boasted, “If they’re looking for trouble I’ll give it to them.”

  I knew I must reason with Sebastian in a manner not perceived to be commanding, or the boy’s obstinacy would set in and there would be no moving him. “According to Trotter, the Indians in this region are not like the ones we found along the lower Platte. They’re likely Sioux and Cheyenne and they are wont to take what they please. Might it be best to meet them when our strength of numbers is at least equal to theirs, if not superior?”

  Sebastian looked up at last, squinting in the direction of my gaze. Though he would not admit it, I knew his eyesight was failing. He would need glasses soon, an impediment crippling to one as enamored of the outdoors as he. I could tell from his expression he could not see the Indians and therefore was not inclined to believe me.

  “I’m sure we can trade with them. All Indians are beggars after all. Give them a pouch of tobacco, or a sack full of beads and they’ll be your friend for life,” he said dismissively.

  Satisfied, he went back to the business of tracking the puny quail. I looked to the horizon. The men were much closer now. I wanted to spur Elijah and make for the wagons, but could not abandon the foolish boy. I considered unsheathing my rifle, but rethought the notion, knowing that my skill and those of Sebastian’s would be no match for the phalanx of warriors riding at us. I determined we must use tactic and bluff – and pray to God that providence was overlooking us.

  The six men were naked to the waist, with only a crude breechcloth covering their modesty. Their bare, well muscled legs were wrapped like red-brown coils about the bellies of their short ponies. They were of average height or less, a phenomenon that I had noted before, the aborigines of the western plains being, for the most part, shorter than those of European stock. But their upper bodies were as chiseled as any Greek statue, the harshness of their life having made its survivors into veritable men of granite. Their hair was long and black and tied back with strips of dyed cloth and head bands wrapped about their temples.

  Five of them carried crude lances carved from sturdy saplings with stone flint heads tied to the shafts with bits of rawhide. Only one of them carried a firearm, an ancient musket that looked as if it had come across on the Mayflower. Each had a fine bow and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back with either a long steel blade hanging at their side or a stone tomahawk tucked inside the waistband of their breechcloth. The ponies were scrawny, but sturdy creatures, spotted with a rainbow of colors as if dappled by a child’s paint set, their eyes burning with the same fire as the savage men who rode them. They used no saddles or stirrups, only a rough blanket for a seat and rope for a bridle. They came upon us in a rush. Reining their horses into a cantor, they deftly encircled us. Sebastian finally deigned to acknowledge their presence with an offhand gesture and raised eyebrow. A large jack rabbit was tied to the lance of one of the warriors.

  Sebastian spoke up in a voice he reserved for servants and those he perceived to be his inferiors, who in his mind were legion, “The hunting’s damned poor in these parts.” Two of the men looked at one another in confusion. “Damned idiots,” Sebastian pronounced. “Can’t even speak the language.”

  “Poor hun-ting!” He shouted, as if the increase in volume might bridge the gulf of Babel. The men became agitated, gesturing among themselves.

  “Careful Sebastian, you might insult them without even knowing,” I cautioned.

  “Don’t be an old woman Clayton,” Sebastian said. Emboldened by the native’s hesitance, he urged his great warhorse forward, wedging himself between two of the fiercest looking Indians. “Me trade for tomahawk!” He said pointing at the club in one of the men’s belts.

  A seventh rider had appeared on the horizon, naked as his brethren. He came at us in a gallop, body laid low over the neck of his pony. Sebastian took no note of him. A sweat began to break out on my forehead as I imagined the thrust of a flint tipped lance piercing my lung. How many more were there I wondered? Perhaps a party of a hundred lay just over the hill. I remembered the horror stories my grandmother had told of th
e Mohawk Wars in the Colonial days of native torture and mayhem. I grinned inanely at one of the savages who stared back at me with cold disdain. One of them made a clucking sound and began to point at the oncoming rider, drawing the attention of his fellows. They exchanged a flurry of words in their foreign tongue, gesturing madly. When they’d finished, one of them grasped the rifle in Sebastian’s hand and wrested it from him as if he were a child.

  A look of shock overtook his face and he lunged at the Indian, attempting to retrieve it, but the man was too fast, moving his pony back just out of reach, causing Sebastian to nearly tumble out of his saddle. As he righted himself, the Indians laughed, finding great amusement in his ineptitude. Determined to salvage his damaged self esteem, Sebastian grabbed for his pistols. I had anticipated the move and was beside him, wrapping a restraining arm about him. He struggled against me, but I was too strong. The Indians guffawed even louder and then swirled in as the seventh approached, determined to pick clean the gift that the wind had deposited into their grateful hands.

  The seventh man reined in his pony, a sharp command issuing from his lungs. This is their leader I thought. Now we will die. At that instant, Sebastian broke free, a frenzy of anger and righteous hatred filling him. Lashing the Indians with his reins he battled out of their clutches, his previous foolishness having lulled them into a sense of calm.

  As he whirled the great charger around he shouted at me, “Save yourself!”

  Then he was gone, bounding away over the prairie. Surrounded by the red men, I had no chance at escape. I caught one last glimpse of Sebastian as he bounced toward the east. At that moment there was no mercy in me. If I was to die, I would gladly have had him share my miserable fate. The Indians closed the circle about me, their faces grim set, low guttural oaths escaping their lips.

  Chapter 9 – Savage Fellowship

  I shall never forget the spectacle of riding over the hilltop in the company of my seven noble companions with the sun at our backs. Below us was the wagon encampment, pulled into a tight square, bristling with guns barrels pointed out like fishing poles hung over a waterless lake. The sounds of braying livestock and manly curses burbled from their midst like a stinking cauldron. We reined in our horses a hundred yards from the camp. I waved and called out, then rode in alone feeling like the cock of the walk. I saw Trotter’s jaw dropped at the sight. He nearly shot himself in the foot as he dropped his rifle, the explosion of the gunshot causing the Indians to raise their fists and begin dancing their ponies in a mad circle.

  “Don’t shoot, they’re peaceable!” I hollered putting Elijah into a trot.

  “Don’t believe him! They’re murderers!” Sebastian declared in a voice so shrill it had taken on a girlish quality.

  “Who did they murder?” I asked him. Sebastian’s mouth worked, but no words came, his voice box unable to answer the insulting query.

  I rode up to him grinning like a striped monkey and doffed my hat. “I’m glad to see you’re well Sebastian. I feared your horse might stumble in a gopher hole as fast as you took off.”

  The entire company of immigrants and hunters gathered around us. I had not been the center of such attention since I’d taken part in a Christmas pageant at the age of twelve. I could not help preening a bit when I noticed Rachel with the rest of her family amongst the throng, staring up at me. . I spied Spencer at the rear of the crowd, yawning and stretching as if he’d just awakened from a long slumber. I waved at him and he nodded, grinning. He seemed not at all concerned about any of it.

  “How is it you’re alive?” Sebastian asked in a small, barely audible voice.

  Uriah Kingfish, the leader of the immigrant party, spoke up, “He told us they were peeling your scalp as he escaped.”

  I laughed. “Oh, these are good fellows. Once I’d traded them a bit of tobacco and shared a pipe, we got along famously. On the way back, we even did some hunting.”

  Sebastian seemed a child, shrunken in his stature and reduced to a heap of humiliation. “They were going to kill you. I was sure of it,” he muttered.

  A part of me was angry beyond imagining at Sebastian’s cowardice. I would never be able to fully trust him again. But another part of me understood both his inexperience and the instinct for flight and survival that is inherent in us all. In truth, I had been as sure as he that a violent, painful death was in store for me when he fled. Such it might have been, but for the intervention of the seventh rider.

  “The fellow who came over the ridge as you were leaving turned out to have a decent grasp of the language. His name is Na’he Hinhan, Tree Owl in our language. He’s an amazing fellow, a Northern Cheyenne. A bit of a tourist in these parts like us. The others are Ogallala Sioux. They’re his cousins,” I explained.

  It was pure chance that Tree Owl had arrived when he did. He had been enroute to their village, but had seen a hawk in the sky and turned to follow it, leading him back to his companions where he acted as my interpreter and savior, convincing his fellows not to lift my scalp in retaliation for Sebastian’s insulting behavior.

  “Is it all right – can I ask them to come in?” I asked no one in particular.

  “It may be a trick and they may plan to kill us. We have women and children to think about,” Kingfish chimed in.

  Trotter looked the seven Indian over, studying them closely. “Naw, they’re not painted for war. I expect they are just out for a lark. Bring ‘em on in. But keep ‘your powder dry,” he said disgustedly.

  Kingfish wagged a finger at Trotter. “I’ll hold you responsible if these savages take to raping and killing.”

  “You have a pickle for a brain,” Trotter told him.

  Kingfish glowered at Trotter and balled his fists as if to fight. The immigrant leader was nearly Trotter’s equal in physical size, but I doubt he could have lasted more than one round with the scout. They were like bullies in a schoolyard I thought, but dangerously armed, each sporting a long Bowie Knife and loaded pistol. The scout turned his back on bumptious wagon master in disdain and walked away.

  I rode out to my new friends and gave them the good news. Tree Owl pulled on a calico shirt, the equivalent of a Sunday suit, and rode beside me as we entered the camp seated majestically on a white and red spotted pony. The sea of immigrants parted before us, some hiding themselves in abject terror, others rooted to the spot in fascination. I imagined myself the Kublai Khan returning from a pilgrimage to the Far East at the head of a savage band of Mongols.

  Tree Owl was marginally taller than his fellows, but more elegant, his body less squat and knotted with muscles. Two ritual of scars decorated his upper chest. There was a graceful appearance about him and a sparkling humor. He was a noted warrior of the Cheyenne Dog Soldier caste. His mother had been a Sioux princess, hence his familial relations with his confederates among the Sioux. He pointed to the man who’d taken Sebastian’s rifle and began to speak in a voice, not unpleasant.

  “He wants to give it back. He says he only meant to look at it, but that you were rude. He says he’s sorry.” Sebastian stepped forward and took the gun from the Indian who smiled down at him.

  “They’d like to stay to dinner. They have an elk they’ll share,” I reported.

  “Are you sure it’s safe?” Kingfish asked again.

  Trotter had returned carrying a pouch of tobacco. He shot a nasty look at the faint hearted pioneer. “They’re only a small party. Sioux never try anything funny unless the odds are considerably in their favor.” He inspected the peace offering, lifting its head. “And that elk would be mighty fine eatin’.”

  In a matter of minutes, introductions had been made all around and the animal skinned. As dinner cooked, the men sat down to talk and trade lies. Sebastian cast looks of wonderment upon the savage red men, his fear of them quickly subsiding. Mozart entertained, alternating such favorites as Froggy Went A Courtin’ with Bach Cantatas, which delighted the Indians to no end.

  Sebastian challenged the musket owner to a target shooting contes
t. Despite his poor eyesight, he easily bested the fellow, restoring his wounded pride. The red men, in turn, put on a marvelous display of archery which prompted Sebastian to declare his adoration of their artless skill.

  “These are real men. Not like those vagabonds who beg for food in the Kansas country. Never have I seen such manly specimens of physical perfection. Every muscle is taut as a bow, every reflex lightning on the wind.”

  “Yes,” Zenobia agreed. “I should like to dissect one someday.” He held a notebook in one hand, pencil in the other.

  “What is that you’re writing Doctor?” I asked Zenobia.

  “Dialects are a hobby of mine. I’ve achieved a mastery of French, German, Basque and Scandinavian, as well as Hindi and a smattering of a dozen of its sub-languages and regional dialects. I regularly accost young Rachel for phrases in the Jewish tongue and have filled a notebook with Hebrew, Yiddish and Russian phrases. I don’t trust the rambling interpretations offered by Trotter and seek more concise delineations of the Ogallala dialect. I expect after a few hours, I should be able to converse with the natives on a limited basis.”

  “Amazing,” I said.

  There was not enough meat to go around, so we supplemented the elk with vegetables, fresh bread and biscuits, a delight to the Indians, whose women could produce only the flat bread of prehistoric origin due to the limitations of their culinary skills. I offered Rachel and her family a small taste of the meat and they accepted, though the father made clear it did not meet the culinary requirements of their religion.

  As we ate, we learned that our guests were members of the northern branch of the Ogallala Sioux who summered along the Upper Platte River, making their winter camp in the vast expanse of land that lay to the west of Missouri but south of the wagon trails. Though full of boasts, it was clear none of the young warriors were exceptional men, though I expect any of them would have proven deadly in combat. All were competent hunters and excellent liars as they matched the tall tales Trotter spun, expanding upon their abilities until, if believed, the entire animal population of North America would have been depleted in a single season had these esteemed men slaughtered but half the beasts they claimed. Tree Owl spoke of himself but little, as befits a modest man, choosing to act as chief interpreter for his cousins instead.