The Powder River Read Online Free PDF Page A

habit he had when he was thinking. Sometimes he rubbed that one and the long, raking scar in his side at the same time. He never touched the scars on his face without thinking angrily of where they came from—the smallpox that the white man brought to the Indian. His face looked like a gopher village, he thought bitterly, because of this white-man scourge. The scars itched often and seldom let him forget.
    He did not resent the seven scars from seven bullet wounds gotten on the Powder River two years ago. That day he gave as good as he got. He was glad the marks were still red and angry—they were proclamations of honor.
    So now Little Wolf and Morning Star were leading the people home. Nearly a thousand Tsistsistas-Suhtaio had come south, and on this September night only three hundred were starting back to Powder River country. Most of the rest were piled up at the burial place. Little Wolf preferred not to think of the several dozen who were staying in the lodges at the agency, afraid to leave for home. Of the three hundred on the trek north, fewer than a hundred were men of fighting age. Even to approach a hundred, Little Wolf had to interpret fighting age liberally, including all males thirteen and older, no matter how infirm. Many of these were old enough only to be playing with bows and arrows, or too old to wield weapons.
    So Little Wolf knew he must avoid fights with the soldiers—killing bluecoats would only bring more blue-coats. And Little Wolf must avoid, even more strictly, fights with other whites. The vehos accepted fights with troops, but they went crazy over fights with ranchers and townspeople, even in self-defense. That made them set the copper wires to talking and bring soldiers from everywhere on the steel tracks and fight in a frenzy, not caring who they killed, even infants and the aged or infirm.
    Little Wolf needed more guns for the people and more horses, but he would have to trade for them. If he stole them, even though the whites had stolen his guns and horses, the price in blood would be terrible. So the buffalo robes the people had left, the beadwork that the women had done, the parfleches they had made, and the moccasins—these few items were the tribe’s last resort. Aa-i-i-ee, the traders would know the tribe was desperate, and the trade prices would be high.
    With it all, though, he would stick to his motto: The only Indian never killed is the Indian never caught.
    He rubbed the scars on his face with both hands and pondered.
    Wooden Legs and Little Finger Nail crawled on all fours, making sure they weren’t silhouetted—black, moving shapes could be seen against the moonlit sand hills. They kept their elbows on the ground and eased over the hummock and into the gully below. Now they could move out more swiftly.
    Good-bye, soldiers, thought Wooden Legs—be glad you will live to see the dawn.
    Wooden Legs and Little Finger Nail had watched two sentries near the far-shooting cannons all night. The village lay below, apparently peaceful, the fires making the raggedy canvas tipis glow for a while, then at last dimming until only black tripod shapes marked the presence of the lodges.
    Little Finger Nail and Wooden Legs’ job had been to make sure the sentries only used their eyes, and not their ears. If they heard the people leaving the village empty, if they went to alert the soldier officers, they would have to be silenced. Instantly.
    These two young dog soldiers understood the necessity for such a job. They had the wisdom to hold back if possible, and the audacity to act swiftly if necessary. Wooden Legs was a son of Little Wolf, the old-man chief, generally thought brave and maybe hotheaded. Little Finger Nail was a painter of beautiful pictures, a singer with a sweet voice, and a smart, bold man in a fight.
    At first light the soldiers would find the camp abandoned and know they had been tricked. First light was soon enough. At just that time, when the soldiers were trying to figure