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Authors: Rosanne Bittner
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mean she had been scalped while still alive, otherwise the blood would not have run over her face. His head pounded with the reality of it. Surely then, others had been mutilated while still alive. His eyes teared so that he could barely see as he stumbled about amid the bodies, afraid, so afraid one of them would be Wolf’s Blood.
To his relief he did not find the boy or the young girl Morning Bird of whom Wolf’s Blood was so fond. Zeke found his way back to his mount, glad Abbie was not with him. This would have been too much for her, and too much for any of the children to see. If this indicated how much Indians were hated, what lay ahead for his own children? He climbed wearily onto his Appaloosa and looked around the camp again. The bodies were strewn about for over two miles, and he had walked the entire area looking for Wolf’s Blood. He had noticed faint tracks that continued into the distance from the creek bed. Apparently a few had survived and had gotten away.There was only one direction in which they could go, to the headwaters of the Smoky Hill River, where many more Cheyenne were camped. That was a good fifty miles away, and most of them were probably on foot. If the soldiers overtook them, there would be no hope for them. And even if they didn’t, how could these Cheyenne survive when most of them were half naked in the winter cold.
He took one last look around the village before leaving. “Fools!” he growled. “They think this will end the Indian fighting. But after this it will be worse than ever! There will be no hope for peace now!”
It seemed he could hear cries of death and pain in the wind. The People lay dead on the ground, and soon their bones would be one with the earth, as they had been even in life. Perhaps the bodies were dead, but their spirits were not dead, nor would they ever be. They would go on forever, blooming with the prairie flowers, falling in the spring rains to greet the buried bones. These Indians would speak forever, perhaps not in voices, but in other ways.
He headed at a near gallop toward the Smoky Hill, hoping he would not run into John Chivington and his Third Colorado Cavalry, the “Denver Roughs” as they were sometimes called, one hundred-day volunteers who joined up just for the fun.
Abbie raised the old Spencer that was once her father’s and took aim. The big buck stood as though in a trance, looking straight at her. In these days of scarce game, one did not pass up such precious meat, and although she had only been walking and had not planned on hunting, the good fortune of coming on the mule deer could not be passed up. The gun she had brought along for protection would now be used tokeep food on the table.
She squeezed the trigger and fired. The deer slumped down, then tried to rise. It struggled to its feet and, while Abbie quickly reloaded, ran for several yards before it fell again. Abbie hurried to where it lay. The animal did not stir. Blood covered the white hairs of its chest. Abbie sighed and stooped down, petting the deer’s neck.
“There was a time, long ago, when. I was too softhearted to shoot something like you,” she said aloud to the animal. “But out here we have to be practical, as Zeke would say. According to his beliefs animals were put here by his God to feed his children, yet we are all one in spirit. So I’ll do what Zeke would do and say thank you, deer spirit.”
She rose and looked back toward the cabin. It was much too far away for her to drag the animal, but she could see Lance already running toward her and she could make out a rifle in his hand. He had heard the shot and probably had thought she was in trouble. He had argued with her about going out alone, but she had needed to get away, to pray for Zeke and Wolf’s Blood, to remember the good times and to try to keep her sanity until Zeke returned.
“Halloo!” someone called to her from the ridge behind her. She turned, rifle ready, only to see a man riding down
To his relief he did not find the boy or the young girl Morning Bird of whom Wolf’s Blood was so fond. Zeke found his way back to his mount, glad Abbie was not with him. This would have been too much for her, and too much for any of the children to see. If this indicated how much Indians were hated, what lay ahead for his own children? He climbed wearily onto his Appaloosa and looked around the camp again. The bodies were strewn about for over two miles, and he had walked the entire area looking for Wolf’s Blood. He had noticed faint tracks that continued into the distance from the creek bed. Apparently a few had survived and had gotten away.There was only one direction in which they could go, to the headwaters of the Smoky Hill River, where many more Cheyenne were camped. That was a good fifty miles away, and most of them were probably on foot. If the soldiers overtook them, there would be no hope for them. And even if they didn’t, how could these Cheyenne survive when most of them were half naked in the winter cold.
He took one last look around the village before leaving. “Fools!” he growled. “They think this will end the Indian fighting. But after this it will be worse than ever! There will be no hope for peace now!”
It seemed he could hear cries of death and pain in the wind. The People lay dead on the ground, and soon their bones would be one with the earth, as they had been even in life. Perhaps the bodies were dead, but their spirits were not dead, nor would they ever be. They would go on forever, blooming with the prairie flowers, falling in the spring rains to greet the buried bones. These Indians would speak forever, perhaps not in voices, but in other ways.
He headed at a near gallop toward the Smoky Hill, hoping he would not run into John Chivington and his Third Colorado Cavalry, the “Denver Roughs” as they were sometimes called, one hundred-day volunteers who joined up just for the fun.
Abbie raised the old Spencer that was once her father’s and took aim. The big buck stood as though in a trance, looking straight at her. In these days of scarce game, one did not pass up such precious meat, and although she had only been walking and had not planned on hunting, the good fortune of coming on the mule deer could not be passed up. The gun she had brought along for protection would now be used tokeep food on the table.
She squeezed the trigger and fired. The deer slumped down, then tried to rise. It struggled to its feet and, while Abbie quickly reloaded, ran for several yards before it fell again. Abbie hurried to where it lay. The animal did not stir. Blood covered the white hairs of its chest. Abbie sighed and stooped down, petting the deer’s neck.
“There was a time, long ago, when. I was too softhearted to shoot something like you,” she said aloud to the animal. “But out here we have to be practical, as Zeke would say. According to his beliefs animals were put here by his God to feed his children, yet we are all one in spirit. So I’ll do what Zeke would do and say thank you, deer spirit.”
She rose and looked back toward the cabin. It was much too far away for her to drag the animal, but she could see Lance already running toward her and she could make out a rifle in his hand. He had heard the shot and probably had thought she was in trouble. He had argued with her about going out alone, but she had needed to get away, to pray for Zeke and Wolf’s Blood, to remember the good times and to try to keep her sanity until Zeke returned.
“Halloo!” someone called to her from the ridge behind her. She turned, rifle ready, only to see a man riding down
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