To make war, and to make them suffer by killing loved ones — old, young — one by one. A sweet, slow campaign of obliteration, carried out by the American Bonaparte.
"Bonaparte," he cried to the moon and the smoke. "Bonaparte's masterpiece!"
The squatters left their wind-tattered fire and melted into the dark.
He tapped his plug hat to seat it firmly on his head and squared his tilted shoulders as best he could. The claw-hammer coat they'd given him shone with age and grease in the moonlight. He executed a perfect military pivot and marched, like a man who had never been ill a moment. He strode into the sharp-edged shadow cast by another great broken wall, and there he temporarily vanished.
17
The Jackson Trading Company rode toward Black Kettle's village surrounded by Scar and his braves. The Indians had relieved the white men of their weapons. Charles had refused to surrender his at first, but he relented when Wooden Foot insisted it was for their own good. "Don't give 'em no excuse to kill us, Charlie."
The day darkened. Wind drove the snow into Charles's face with stinging speed. Suddenly he knew the nature of the wispy fringe on Scar's coat.
"I should have recognized it. I saw scalps in Texas. That's hair," he said to Wooden Foot.
"You're right. A Dog Society man can wear that kind of decoration if he counts enough coup and kills enough enemies."
"Some of the fringe is yellow. There are no blond Indians."
"I told you, Charlie, we bought a load of grief this time."
The trader's attention jumped back and forth between Charles and Fen. Straining in the travois poles, the collie barked and barked. Two braves rode up alongside, raising their lances to throw.
"Don't you do that," Wooden Foot yelled, reddening. The braves laughed and veered away, satisfied with the reaction.
The Cheyennes kept toying with their prisoners: riding close, touching them with their hands and coup sticks. Scar galloped next to the pack mules and with his lance slashed another canvas bag. Triangular pony beads cascaded to the snowy ground.
Charles raised his hand. Wooden Foot grabbed it to restrain him.
"Our hair's worth more'n the goods. We just got to put up with them till we figure some way out."
First they came upon eight boys in fur robes stalking game with blunt arrows. Over the next rise they discovered the horse herd, around a hundred ponies, guarded by more boys. A gentle slope ran down to the Cimarron, where tipis stood along the snowy banks. The wind brought the odor of wood smoke.
Quietly, Wooden Foot said, "No matter what they do, don't get mad. Keep your wits, and if I give you a cue real sudden, take it." Charles nodded, though the trader's meaning wasn't entirely clear.
Riding into the village, they created a stir. Old men, mothers with infants in cradleboards on their back, girls, children, dogs poured from the tipis and crowded around, chattering and pointing, and not in a hostile way, Charles thought. Scar was the hostile one. He jumped from his pony and signed for them to do the same.
Charles dismounted. He noticed buffalo hides pegged to the ground, and others stretched on vertical frames, but because of the bad weather, the outdoor work of the village had stopped.
As he looked around, his eyes made contact with the large, intensely curious ones of a girl in the crowd. She had regular, even delicate features, and shining black hair. She was about fifteen, he judged, starting to look away. She gave him a quick smile to show that not all in the village were his enemies.
Scar's braves crowded around. Wooden Foot took the offensive with a flurry of signs and shouting. "Moketavato! I'll speak to him."
"I told you, Black Kettle is not here," Scar said. "There are no peace chiefs to help you; only war chiefs." He spoke to his men. 'Take their goods."
One of the Indians, in a cavalry fatigue blouse, started to slash open Charles's saddlebags. Charles bolted forward to stop him. Wooden Foot yelled a warning, and someone behind him bashed his head with a rifle butt, knocking his hat off. A second blow drove him to his knees. The crowd exclaimed. Fen growled. Scar kicked the collie, making Fen yelp and snap.
The Dog Men swarmed around the pack animals. They cut and tore the bags holding the iron scrapers, hoe blades, tin pots. The crowd pressed forward. Playing to them, Scar ordered his men to distribute the trade goods.
Women and children pushed forward and clamored for this item or that. The young girl was one of the few who held back, Charles noticed as he picked himself up. Here and there, someone's face reproached the display of greed, but most of the villagers paid no attention. Wooden Foot gazed around him with a peculiar expression, as though he had never seen tipis or Cheyennes before.
Suddenly Scar announced, "These whites are devils, who plan to do us harm. Their goods, and their lives, belong to us." His men made gruff noises to agree.
Wooden Foot lost his bemused look. "Scar, this just isn't right. It isn't the way of the People."
Scar squared his shoulders. "It is mine."
"No-good little shit," Wooden Foot said, loud enough to be heard. Scar understood, too. He gestured.
"Kill them."
Charles's stomach seemed to plummet a half mile. Wooden Foot flashed him a sharp look, snatched Boy's hand, and lunged. The sudden move surprised everyone, allowing the trader and Boy to bowl through between two Dog Men. "Run for it, Charlie. This way."
Charles ran for it.
An iron-bladed trade hatchet, hurled by a Dog Soldier, whisked by his ear. Women and old men screamed. Charles darted between two frightened grandfathers and out of the crowd. He didn't understand Wooden Foot's sudden show of cowardice. What good was running? They'd only be caught, again.
Wooden Foot thrust his arm out to indicate a large heavily decorated tipi down a lane to his left. In front of it, snow melting on his gray hair and crossed arms, stood a heavy Indian with a dark, seamed face. Wooden Foot dived past him into the tipi, dragging Boy after him.
Charles kept running. He heard and felt Scar's men close behind. Of all the stupidity, he thought. Cornered in a tipi. Wooden Foot had lost his mind.
He raced toward the old Cheyenne, expecting to be stopped. The gray-haired Indian flicked his eye at the tipi hole and nodded. Feeling hopeless, Charles nevertheless jumped through the oval opening. The Indian immediately stepped in front of it.
A small fire in a shallow pit gave off acrid smoke but little warmth. Crouching in the cold gloom, Charles picked up a stone-headed hatchet lying near him.
"Put that away, Charlie."
"What in hell's wrong with you? They're right outside."
Angry voices verified it. Scar's was loudest. While he snarled, the older Indian spoke in a calm, low voice. The snarls took on a note of frustration. "We don't need weapons now," Wooden Foot said. He pointed over his head.
Hanging there, Charles saw what appeared to be a hat fashioned from the head of a buffalo. A pattern of blue beads decorated it, and the horns were bright with painted designs.
"That's the Buffalo Hat," Wooden Foot said. "Sacred, like the four Medicine Arrows. The hat wards off sickness, and if some fool steals it, the buffalo will go away for good. That old priest outside, he guards it day and night. Anybody who shelters where the hat hangs can't be molested."
"You mean this is a sanctuary, like a church?"
"Yep. Scar can't touch us."
Charles shivered, cooling down as his sweat dried. He felt unexpectedly disgruntled. "Look, the war cured me of inviting fights. But if a fight starts, it galls me to run."
"You mean you think comin' in here's yella."
"Well —"
While the priest continued to argue with Scar, Wooden Foot said, "Didn't I tell you that you got to turn your notions upside down out here? Why do you think Scar's so mad? We just did the biggest thing — I mean the very biggest — any Dog Society man can do. We was about to be beat, murdered, and we got away. That's bigger'n the biggest coup."