The Arapaho

They drove Catcher’s wagon to Cottonwood Springs and parked it behind the ramshackle stage station and put the Indian’s horses in a corral where he saddled a paint pony.  Then they bought some beans and fresh fatback and coffee and repacked the loads their animals carried.  They checked their weapons and mounted and rode to the edge of the settlement where Pony and the Indian stopped.

What is it? asked Baker.

Pony and the Indian looked at each other, then turned in their saddles and Pony spoke.

Me n Catcher, we think ye need to shed the blue shirt.

What?  For what reason?

Lieutenant, we’re on the trail of Cheyenne.  Bein Indians, chances are they’ll see us first.  That shirt makes it more likely they’ll run or fight.  Not the result we’re after.

I’m an officer in the army.

Ye can tell em that.  But first we got to get close enough to talk.  They don’t welcome the uniform, lieutenant.

Baker thought about it, then stripped his cavalry shell and folded it, tucked it in a saddle bag.  He wore a white muslin shirt, which grew dark with sweat as the day wore on and the temperature climbed.

They crossed the south fork of the Platte and headed west toward Julesburg.  Gradually the miles of needlegrass and coneflower gave way to sage, soapweed and rabbitbrush, and nothing other.  The river angled southwest, and the land descended into a broad floodplain, bordered on the west by low, naked slopes, riffled with washouts and shallow draws that trailed to the horizon like dry veins, twisted and narrowing, only to disappear in the high, rolling savannahs that moated the buttes and hogbacks, portends of the Rockies, far to the west.  In the center of the floodplain a ribbon of cottonwoods marked the winding flow of the Platte as it turned again west, then south to front the foothills, before finally bending back north, in the long canyon climb to its origins in the snowfields of the distant summits. 

They rode a land tracked in ancient millennia by herds of mammoth and camel, and the great spike-toothed cats that stalked the auguries of the bison flood; an ancient country, empty, through centuries and in tongues unknown described as the home of countless tribes, eagle-worshippers and headhunters, repetitious and transient. 

It was Cheyenne country.

--

There were two of them, mounted on tall American horses.  They were trail weary; for the past month they had been raiding with the Cheyenne, attacking small parties of the hairy-faces as they strung the talking wire or hunted buffalo, or when they foolishly struck out across the prairie as Bauer had done, inadequately armed, or alone -  deserters, prospectors, the hopeful and the forlorn, now dead.

Three scalps were attached to rawhide shields that hung from the crups of their horses, which bore underneath the brands of pale-skinned owners.  One rider wore three silver rings on his right hand; the other a rawhide necklace on which human fingers had been strung.  Both were armed with bows and on this morning they rode single file, confining their line of travel to the winding draws and low ground between rises, avoiding skylines like wolves.  They were returning to their people, to the land of the Arapaho, west of Laramie.

Pony rode to the middle of a dry wash, dismounted, and seated himself cross-legged in the gravel bed in front of his horse.  In his mouth he held a clay pipe.  Before him in the sand he set a coffee pot.  The Arapaho rounded a bend, saw him and stopped, pulling the jaw ropes until their ponies’ mouths gaped; nor did the Indians’ facial expressions betray their surprise.  But a moment passed, and both of them brought their bows up, slowly, simultaneously turning arrows they held in their hands so they could be nocked.

The click of gunlocks stopped them.  They turned to see Baker and then Catcher rise up on either side of the wash, weapons aimed at the heads of the Arapaho.

They expected to be shot from their horses, but the hairy-face who sat on the ground began sign-talking, and after a short interval the Indians slung their bows and dismounted to sit in the gravel, glancing around to see Catcher and Baker lower their weapons.

Pony built a small fire and made coffee.  They watched without speaking.  He spoke Cheyenne and he signed, telling them he was not interested in killing them or they would be dead already.  He only wanted to talk, and if the Arapaho would talk, he would send them on their way with gifts - some of the black medicine and a bag of sugar.  He asked them if they knew where the dog soldiers who had been raiding up on the Holy Road were, and if they knew anything about a small girl, daughter of a killed hairy-face.  He poured each of them a cup of coffee and set the cups in front of the warriors, the aroma rising.  He brought out a bag of sugar and put small handfuls in each cup, then set the bag before them, motioning to drink.  They looked at each other, but did not pick up the cups.  Pony poured a cup for himself and drank from it.  He smacked his lips and smiled and motioned again for the Arapaho to drink.  Then he lit his clay pipe.

They were young, barely eighteen years old, on their first extended journey away from their people.  The Cheyenne had treated them well, like family, but the travel and lack of sleep had worn them down.  They were homesick.  The coffee smelled good.  Only talk, the hairy-face said.  Then the pipe. 

Among the plains tribes a lit pipe was an almost universal sign of non-hostile intent, of truth spoken.  Not friendship, but a pause, a suspension of animus - temporarily, anyway.  The hairy-face spoke in signs and his Cheyenne was good.  He drank the coffee to show it was not poison.  And unlike most of his race it was obvious he was comfortable in the company of Indians; he traveled with one.

I am called Pony, he signed.  I know the Cheyenne well.  I have lived among them.  I am not here to fight.

Almost in unison the Arapaho reached for the coffee.

He offered them tobacco, which they took.

They gave their names.  White Magpie and Dog-That-Runs, which was short for The-Dog-That-Runs-After-Horses.  As their horses stamped the gravel and switched flies, their story unfolded:  They had been with the Cheyenne since the last full moon.  They had not seen the girl.  Magpie had heard about a girl in the camp of Little Wound, but since he hadn’t seen her himself, he would not say she was the one the hairy-face sought.  Many attacks had been made in the country around the Holy Road, and there was considerable anger among the Cheyenne against the hairy-faces.  Dog soldiers led some of the attacks.

Magpie was the speaker; Dog-That-Runs drank coffee and nodded.  Pony asked if they knew where Little Wound’s village was camped.  Neither knew, but Magpie thought the village was moving west and south out of the Smoky Hill country toward Two Buttes Creek.  Pony smiled and tapped his pipe against his heel, signaling the end of the talk.  The Arapaho finished their coffee and he gave them the sugar and a small sack of coffee beans. 

Before he rode away, Magpie looked at Catcher and Baker, then at Pony.  He leaned forward on the withers and spoke to Pony in low tones.  The Dog Soldiers will try to kill you, he said.  You will have to be very brave.  Then the two Arapaho put heels to their horses’ flanks and rode down the wash, rounded a corner and vanished from sight.

          Baker stepped to Pony’s side.  What did he say? he asked.  Pony turned and exchanged Cheyenne words with Catcher, who nodded and began walking up the wash to where their horses were tied. 

Rogers, what did he say?

Pony looked at Baker.  Lieutenant, we’ll be heading south.

He turned to walk away, but Baker stepped around him and blocked his path. 

What did he say?

Pony smiled.  He said be ready.  Step aside, lieutenant.

Baker didn’t move.  What did he say about the child?

Pony turned his head to the side and spit into the gravel.  When he turned back, his smile was gone.

He don’t know about the girl.  She might be with Little Wound’s people.  Mebbe not.

Where are we going?

To find out.

Baker didn’t move. 

All saucered and blowed lieutenant?  Ready to jump the heathens? 

He leaned forward. 

Where we're headed more'n likely it'll be the other way around. Now git the hell outta my way.