"Oh, God, Cheyennes," Wooden Foot muttered. "And Dog Society men on top of it. They ain't wearin' their regalia, but I recognize the one in front. This couldn't be worse."
"Who is —?"
The rest of the question about the leader went unheard as the Cheyennes reined in, setting the air ajingle with the small round bells braided into the manes of their ponies. Trade bells, from white men, as were the trade carbines they leveled at the Jackson Trading Company. Besides the guns, the Indians carried bows and arrows.
Fen pulled back and forth in his travois harness, growling. Charles bit down on his cigar, now reduced to a stub by rapid puffing. Boy hid behind his uncle.
The darkest Indian, the one wearing the cross, sawed the air and yelled at them in his own tongue. He had a fine, narrow face, though unusually severe. The red paint with which he and the others had decorated their faces and hands was applied to his left cheek with special care. Two broad parallel strokes bracketed a long white scar curving from the outer tip of his eyebrow down along the line of his jaw, where it took a short upward turn beneath the left corner of his mouth — a red-lined fishhook.
The snow fell faster. The Cheyennes eyed Charles and his partner while the leader continued his harangue. Charles understood an occasional word or sign; Wooden Foot's teaching was beginning to sink in. But he didn't need to know any Cheyenne or sign language to understand that almost all of the leader's remarks were angry and nasty.
Persistently, never raising his voice, Wooden Foot kept replying every few seconds. The leader talked at the same time. Charles heard his partner speak of Black Kettle again. The young leader shook his head. He and his friends laughed.
Wooden Foot sighed. His shoulders slumped. He held up his right hand, asking for a respite. Grinning all the more, the leader yelped something Charles took to be assent.
"Charlie, come on." The trader drew him along the Up of the bluff. Carbine muzzles swung to follow them. Wooden Foot looked as depressed as Charles had ever seen him.
"It don't do much good to say it now, but I was wrong. We shouldn't of talked first. These boys are out for blood."
"I thought they didn't attack unless somebody provoked them."
"They's always the exception. I'm afraid that's what we drew in the head man of this bunch." Eyeing the dark Indian unhappily, he went on, "He's a war chief, and a mighty young one at that. His name's Man-Ready-for-War. Whites call him Scar. Chivington's men, they killed his ma at Sand Creek. They cut off her hair. I mean all her hair." Back turned to the Indians, he tapped his groin. "Then they hung it out together with a lot of scalps at that Denver theater where Chivington showed off his trophies. Dunno how Scar heard about it — maybe third or fourth hand. They's a number of tame old Indians hangin' around Denver beggin' or stealin' to live. But I know for a fact he did hear about his mama's shame, and he won't forgive or forget that. I guess I wouldn't either. Understandin' his reasons don't help us much, though."
"What about the treaty?"
"You think that counts a pin for him? I told you the treaty chiefs signed for only eighty lodges."
"He did a lot of talking. What does he want?"
"Scar and his friends are gonna take us into the village. Then they'll decide what to do with us."
"Shouldn't that be all right? Isn't it Black Kettle's village?"
Bleakly, Wooden Foot said, "It is, but he ain't come back from the treaty ground yet. He's overdue. Till he gets here, Scar speaks loud. In one way, he's a lot like white folks lookin' at Indians. Can't tell friend from foe, but in his case he don't want to, either."
Charles felt chillier than the falling snow. "What do we do? Grab our guns?"
Wooden Foot turned slightly, enabling him to see his nephew. Boy had his arms wrapped over his chest, clutching; his eyes were huge. "We do that, it's all over. It may be all over at the village, too, but I think I'd rather go there 'fore we dig our heels in. Boy can't defend himself 'gainst a bunch like this. Maybe some of the women'd take pity on him. Keep the men from carvin' him up." He sighed. "Ain't really fair that I ask you to string this out with me. But that's what I'm doin'."
Charles finished the cigar stub and nipped it down on the buffalo bones. The cigar had tasted more savory than usual. He decided it was because it might be the last he'd ever smoke.
"You know I'll go along with you."
"All right. Thanks."
With the trader leading, they walked back to the Cheyennes. Rapidly, Wooden Foot conveyed the decision to accompany the Indians without a fight. The braves smiled, and Scar yipped like a dog, which set Fen dancing in his harness. Scar reached over his shoulder to his arrow quiver and produced a three-foot stick wrapped in red-dyed buckskin decorated with quills. Painted eyes ornamented one end, eagle feathers the other. Dewclaws taken from some animal turned the stick into a rattle, which Scar brandished as he jumped from his pony.
He darted forward, shaking the rattle. Before Charles could sidestep, Scar slashed the rattle against his cheek. Charles swore and brought his fists up. Wooden Foot held him back.
"Don't, Charlie. I said don't. He just counted a coup, a little harder than he ought."
Charles knew about counting a coup by touching a vanquished enemy. It enhanced an Indian's reputation. But again, understanding how things worked didn't help their situation, or lessen his fear.
The dark-eyed Indian threw his head back and yipped and barked. Some of the others took up the cry, driving Fen into a frenzy of jumping and barking. One of the Cheyennes aimed his trade carbine at the dog. Wooden Foot grabbed Fen by the scruff and held him down, getting a nip on his hand for his trouble.
Charles stood rigid, scared and angry at the same time. Boy nuzzled against his side, trying to hide his sad misshapen head in the folds of the gypsy robe. Three of the Cheyennes dismounted and dashed among the pack animals, knifing open the canvas parcels. One Indian crowed over a bunch of porcupine quills. He cut the binding thong and tossed the quills in the air.
Another stabbed into a bag that spilled a diamond waterfall of pony beads. The Indian cupped his hands beneath, filled both, and ran among his friends, distributing some to each. Wooden Foot restrained Fen, clenched his teeth, and said "God damn," over and over.
Scar strutted to the trader and smacked his shoulder with the snake rattle; another coup. He barked louder than ever. The snow accumulated on Charles's hat brim and shoulders and melted in his eyebrows while a strange sense of finality dropped over him. He'd felt something similar on the eve of battle in the war. The premonition was always fulfilled by someone's death.
"Guess you're pretty damn sorry you listened to me," Wooden Foot muttered.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I kept sayin' they was exceptions to everything, only I guess I didn't learn the lesson good enough myself. I'm some teacher."
With more cheer than he felt, Charles said, "Any teacher can make a mistake."
"Yep, but in this case even one's too many. I'm sorry, Charlie. I sure-God hope we don't travel the Hangin' Road 'fore this day's over."