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Authors: Rosanne Bittner
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his left. As he came closer, he grasped the handle of his knife. He could not be sure what kind of a reception he would get from the restless Indians below, who would be feeling high on their recent victory in their battle over the Powder River country. If his son and brother were among them, he could be sure of his safety.
Someone below called out, and several men gathered then, eyeing the intruder warily, wondering if the approaching stranger was a lead scout for soldiers. Zeke made the slashing sign with his hands, signifying Cheyenne. “I come alone,” he assured them. He dismounted then, leading his horse by the reins as he walked closer to the suspicious Sioux. “I am Lone Eagle,” he told them, in the best he could remember of the Sioux tongue. He repeated it in Cheyenne, for the Sioux and Cheyenne were so mixed by now that most understood both tongues. “I come from the South. I seek my brother, Swift Arrow, and my son, Wolf’s Blood. Are they among you?”
One of the men stepped forward, frowning. “Swift Arrow and Wolf’s Blood are much together,” he told Zeke in the Sioux tongue. “Like father and son. Good warriors. Swift Arrow honored Dog Soldier. One called Wolf’s Blood much help in fighting, but cannot be Dog Soldier because of his whiteblood.” The man looked Zeke over challengingly. “You also have white blood?”
Zeke gripped the knife again and nodded. “I do. Where are my brother and my son?”
The Sioux tossed his head. “They hunt. They come soon.” He grinned a little, stepping back. “What kind of man is this half-blood who comes to our camp?” Another warrior next to him laughed lightly, then tipped a whiskey bottle to his lips. Zeke watched them all carefully, realizing that the drinking helped these restless men forget that their days were surely numbered. It saddened him, for they didn’t even realize that the whiskey would only hasten their demise.
“As good a man as anyone here,” he answered. “I bear the scars of the Sun Dance Ritual. I lived among my people for many years.” He towered over most of the Sioux around him, for he carried the tall, broad physique of his white father.
The first Indian pounded his chest. “I am the best with the arrows,” he bragged.
Zeke drew his knife and held it out. “And I am the best with this. Perhaps you have heard of Lone Eagle. Some call me Cheyenne Zeke. But then maybe you are too young to have heard of me.”
“I know of you,” an older warrior spoke up. The man stood to the side. He looked at the young man who seemed to want to challenge Zeke. “This man’s knife is great medicine. Swift Arrow is his brother. He has told me much about this half-breed. He is not like other white bellies. His blood is Indian. And his knife makes men tremble. You would be foolish to challenge this man, Red Leaf.”
The one called Red Leaf studied Zeke. He was young, full of fire from recent victories, proud of his skills and always glad to show them off. “Then we will play a game,” he said. “I will shoot my arrow at a small target, then remove it. If you can throw this knife of yours and hit the same place where my arrow hits, you are welcome in our camp. If not, you can leave—on foot, white belly. We will keep your fine horse!”
Zeke looked around the village. If Swift Arrow were here, there would be no trouble. But these young warriors wereitching for a challenge and he knew he would be wise to cooperate. He had no desire to harm Red Leaf for he reminded Zeke of his own son. He felt an eagerness of his own, suddenly feeling as though he were back in old times, when life like this was common to him. He nodded. “I accept your challenge, Red Leaf!”
Red Leaf and the others grinned broadly, one of them taking the reins to Zeke’s horse while the rest led him to an open area. Others came to watch then, dogs barking, women peeking shyly at the newcomer. One older but exceedingly beautiful woman began walking alongside them
Someone below called out, and several men gathered then, eyeing the intruder warily, wondering if the approaching stranger was a lead scout for soldiers. Zeke made the slashing sign with his hands, signifying Cheyenne. “I come alone,” he assured them. He dismounted then, leading his horse by the reins as he walked closer to the suspicious Sioux. “I am Lone Eagle,” he told them, in the best he could remember of the Sioux tongue. He repeated it in Cheyenne, for the Sioux and Cheyenne were so mixed by now that most understood both tongues. “I come from the South. I seek my brother, Swift Arrow, and my son, Wolf’s Blood. Are they among you?”
One of the men stepped forward, frowning. “Swift Arrow and Wolf’s Blood are much together,” he told Zeke in the Sioux tongue. “Like father and son. Good warriors. Swift Arrow honored Dog Soldier. One called Wolf’s Blood much help in fighting, but cannot be Dog Soldier because of his whiteblood.” The man looked Zeke over challengingly. “You also have white blood?”
Zeke gripped the knife again and nodded. “I do. Where are my brother and my son?”
The Sioux tossed his head. “They hunt. They come soon.” He grinned a little, stepping back. “What kind of man is this half-blood who comes to our camp?” Another warrior next to him laughed lightly, then tipped a whiskey bottle to his lips. Zeke watched them all carefully, realizing that the drinking helped these restless men forget that their days were surely numbered. It saddened him, for they didn’t even realize that the whiskey would only hasten their demise.
“As good a man as anyone here,” he answered. “I bear the scars of the Sun Dance Ritual. I lived among my people for many years.” He towered over most of the Sioux around him, for he carried the tall, broad physique of his white father.
The first Indian pounded his chest. “I am the best with the arrows,” he bragged.
Zeke drew his knife and held it out. “And I am the best with this. Perhaps you have heard of Lone Eagle. Some call me Cheyenne Zeke. But then maybe you are too young to have heard of me.”
“I know of you,” an older warrior spoke up. The man stood to the side. He looked at the young man who seemed to want to challenge Zeke. “This man’s knife is great medicine. Swift Arrow is his brother. He has told me much about this half-breed. He is not like other white bellies. His blood is Indian. And his knife makes men tremble. You would be foolish to challenge this man, Red Leaf.”
The one called Red Leaf studied Zeke. He was young, full of fire from recent victories, proud of his skills and always glad to show them off. “Then we will play a game,” he said. “I will shoot my arrow at a small target, then remove it. If you can throw this knife of yours and hit the same place where my arrow hits, you are welcome in our camp. If not, you can leave—on foot, white belly. We will keep your fine horse!”
Zeke looked around the village. If Swift Arrow were here, there would be no trouble. But these young warriors wereitching for a challenge and he knew he would be wise to cooperate. He had no desire to harm Red Leaf for he reminded Zeke of his own son. He felt an eagerness of his own, suddenly feeling as though he were back in old times, when life like this was common to him. He nodded. “I accept your challenge, Red Leaf!”
Red Leaf and the others grinned broadly, one of them taking the reins to Zeke’s horse while the rest led him to an open area. Others came to watch then, dogs barking, women peeking shyly at the newcomer. One older but exceedingly beautiful woman began walking alongside them
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