Rampage of the Mountain Man

Chapter Eight

The Cheyenne village of Red Eagle

The village was typical of all the villages of the Plains Indians. The tepees were erected in a series of concentric circles with the openings facing east. They were pitched alongside a fast-flowing stream, which provided not only water for drinking, cooking, and washing, but also fresh fish. Although there were no addresses as such, everyone knew where everyone else lived by their position within the circles.

Fall had already come and the bright yellow aspen trees stood out from the dark green conifers interspersed with a spattering of red and brown from the willow, oak, and maple that climbed the nearby mountainsides. Smoke curled from the tops of the lodges as the women prepared meals while the men watched over the herd of horses, or worked at cleaning their rifles or making bows and arrows. Children played beside the water.

The chief of the village was a man named Red Eagle. Red Eagle was once the great warrior chief of a proud people, but now he was a chief in name only. In compliance with a treaty signed with the soldiers, Red Eagle had moved his people onto a reservation.

The reservation guaranteed peace with the soldiers, but it stripped his people of all identity and pride. Now, they were totally dependent upon the white man for their very survival. They were not allowed to hunt buffalo, for to do so would require them to leave their designated area. But there were few buffalo anyway, the herds having been greatly diminished by the white men who had hunted to supply meat for the work crews that were building the railroads, or worse, the buffers who took only the hides and left the prairie strewn with rotting meat and bleaching bones.

Red Eagle’s people were dispirited. Without the buffalo, there was little to eat. They had been promised a ration of beef by the agency, but the promised beef had not materialized. Even if it had, it was a poor substitute for the buffalo. Red Eagle did not care much for beef, and he knew that his people felt as he did. But if it was a choice of beef or starvation, they would take beef.

Not everyone agreed with Red Eagle. There were some who wanted to leave the reservation, to be free to hunt what buffalo remained. But Red Eagle had no wish to see his village subjected to the kind of murderous attack he and his wife had lived through at White Antelope’s village at Sand Creek, so he counseled his people to stay on the reservation.

Sand Creek proved, however, that even obedience to the white man’s law would not always protect you. There, Colonel John M. Chivington and his Colorado militia had murdered men, women, and children, even as the terrified Indians were gathering around a tepee flying the American flag.

White Antelope, the head of the Sand Creek village, was Red Eagle’s very good friend. An old man of seventy-one, White Antelope was convinced that the soldiers were attacking because they didn’t understand that his people were a peaceful band. In order to prove that his village was friendly, he raised the American flag over his tepee. Then, in order to reinforce his declaration of peace, he started walking toward Colonel Chivington carrying a white flag.

Despite White Antelope’s efforts to show the soldiers that neither he nor his people represented a danger to the soldiers, he was shot down. Red Eagle had screamed out in anger and grief at seeing his friend murdered.

That had been many years ago, but sometimes Red Eagle still believed he could still hear the old chief singing the Cheyenne death song as he lay dying.

“There is not a thing that lives forever Except the earth and the mountains.”

Red Eagle realized then that if he stayed, he would be killed, despite the protection of the American flag and the flag of surrender. He grabbed his wife by the hand and they darted down a ravine, miraculously escaping Chivington’s band.

Now, Red Eagle was the leader of his own village, and he was determined not to let his people be slaughtered as had been the villagers under White Antelope’s protection. If the soldiers demanded that Red Eagle keep his people on the reservation, then that is exactly what he would do. And if Walking Bear and the band of young firebrands who followed him wanted to make trouble off the reservation, then they would have to deal with the soldiers themselves, because he would not make council on their behalf.

As the shadows of evening pushed away the last vestiges of color in the west, Red Eagle came out into the village circle to sit near the fire. The village circle acted as a community center for the village. It was an area of dry grass, smooth logs, and gentle rises making it a very good sitting place. Every night that weather permitted, men, women, and children from the village would gather around the fire’s light and talk of the events of the day.

The village circle was a place where problems were discussed, group decisions made, and young men and young women could court under the watchful eyes of the village. It was also a place of entertainment, sometimes consisting of dancing, but often a place where stories were told.

One of the reasons Red Eagle was a leader of the village was because he was an old man who had lived through many winters, and had experienced a lot of adventures. That made him a particularly good storyteller when he was in the mood, and tonight he was in just such a mood. Besides, he thought, a good story would lift his people’s spirits so that they would not think of the hunger that was gnawing at their bellies.

“Listen,” Red Eagle said, “and I will tell you a story.”

Those who were around him, the men of the council, the warriors, and those who would be warriors, drew closer to hear his words. The women and children grew quiet, not only because it was forbidden to make noise while stories were being told around the campfires, but also because they knew it would be a good story and it filled them with excitement to hear it.

As the fire burned, it cast an orange light upon Red Eagle, making his skin glow and his eyes gleam. A small gas pocket in one of the burning logs popped, and it sent a shower of sparks climbing into the sky, red stars among the blue. Red Eagle held his hand up and crooked his finger as he began to talk.

“Once there was a time before the people, before Kiowa, before Arapaho, before Commanche, before Lakota, even before Cheyenne.”

“What time was this, Grandfather?” one of the children asked. Red Eagle was not the young questioner’s biological grandfather, but he was the spiritual grandfather of them all, and so the child’s innocent question reflected that.

“This was the time before time,” Red Eagle replied. “This was in the time of the beginning, before the winter-count, before there was dry land. Then, there was only water and the Great Spirit, who floated on the water. With him were only things that could swim, like the fish and the swan, the goose, and the duck.

“The Great Spirit wanted to have people, but to do that, had to make land to walk upon. So he asked someone to dive to the bottom. ‘Let me try,’ a little duck said.

“The swan laughed at the little duck. ‘You are much too small. I am a mighty swan, the most noble of all creatures. I will dive to the bottom and find earth.’

“So the swan dove down through the water to try and find the earth. But when he came up, his bill was empty.

“‘The water is much too deep,’ the swan said. ‘I could not find the bottom.’

“‘Let me try and find the bottom,’ the little duck said.

“But the goose laughed at the duck. ‘You are much too little and too weak to find the bottom. I am a goose. I am big and strong. I will find the bottom.’

“So the goose took a deep breath and dove very deep, but he couldn’t reach the bottom either. He came up, gasping for breath, and he said, ‘Great Spirit, I think you are playing tricks with us. I think there is no bottom.’

“‘Please, let me try,’ the little duck said again.

“Both the swan and the goose laughed. ‘Foolish little duck,’ they said. ‘If we could not find the bottom, what makes you think you can?’”

“‘I believe I can do it,’ the little duck said again.

“‘You may try,’ the Great Spirit said.

“The little duck took a deep breath and plunged down through the water. He was underwater for a long time, and everyone thought that the little duck had drowned and they were very sad. ‘You should not have let him try,’ they said to the Great Spirit, but the Great Spirit told them to have patience.

“Then, when it seemed that all was lost, the little duck came back up with a bit of mud in its bill.

“‘How could he do that when we could not?’ the swan asked. ‘He is small and we are big.’

“‘He is small, but his heart is big and his soul is good. That gives him very strong medicine, and that is why he succeeded where you failed,’ the Great Spirit said.

“Then, taking the mud from the bill of the little duck, the Great Spirit worked it in his hands until it was dry, and with it, he made little piles of land on the water surface. That land grew and grew until it made solid land everywhere.” Red Eagle held his arm out and took in all the land around him. “And that is what we see today.”

“And then did our people come to live on the land?” one of the children asked.

“Yes,” Red Eagle said. “Two young men and two young women who were looking for food walked for eight days and eight nights without eating, or drinking, or sleeping. They saw a high peak and decided to go to it to die, for it would be a marker to show their burying place. But when they got there, they saw a yellow-haired woman who showed them the buffalo. The men hunted the buffalo and got food to eat, and the women bore many sons. The sons took many wives and bore more children. I am the child of one of those children, just as you are the children of my children. And thus we are all Cheyenne.”

Once Red Eagle finished his story, others began to tell stories as well. If the story was to be a tale of bravery in battle, the one who spoke would walk over to the lodge pole and strike it with his coup stick. Then everyone would know that he was going to tell a story of an enemy killed in battle. In such stories the enemy warriors were always brave and skilled, because that made the warrior’s own exploits all the greater.

Not all stories were of enemies killed in battle. Some of the stories were of hunting exploits, and some told of things that had happened in the time of their father’s father’s father that had been handed down through the generations to be preserved as part of their history.

One of those who spoke little, but of whom many tales were told, was Walking Bear. A few days earlier, Walking Bear had led a war party against a small establishment that consisted of a military stockade, stagecoach station, and telegraph office. The stockade was manned by about fifty soldiers, and when Walking Bear tried a frontal attack against the soldiers, he was driven back by cannon fire and by the long-range fire of the soldier’s rifles. As the soldiers were protected by the heavy timbers of the stockade, Walking Bear was unable to dislodge them, even though he had superior numbers.

Walking Bear tried a few ploys. He sent ten warriors down toward the soldiers to act as decoys, but they were unable to draw the soldiers out. The next morning he sent twenty, and this time the soldiers came out as far as the bridge, but would come no farther.

Some suggested the warriors should slip down at night and set fire to the stockade, but Walking Bear insisted that only cowards fight in such a way. They finally decided that they would try another frontal assault the next day, massing all their numbers. Before they could launch their attack, though, they were surprised to see an entire platoon of cavalrymen ride out of the fort, cross the bridge, then head westward at a trot. The soldiers had come out of the fort to provide an escort for an approaching wagon train.

Elated at their good fortune, Walking Bear mounted all his warriors and they swarmed down on the wagons and the escorting soldiers.

The soldiers reached the wagons, then, in a classic formation, circled the wagons and dug in. The soldiers fought bravely, and Walking Bear’s own brother was killed in the first few minutes of fighting. Angered and grieving, Walking Bear led the Cheyenne into ever-decreasing circles around the wagons, lashing their ponies to make them go faster and faster. Walking Bear was wearing his medicine bonnet and carrying his sacred shield, so he knew that no bullets would strike him.

As the circle tightened closer to the wagons, the soldiers continued their firing until, finally, all the soldiers were out of ammunition. When the soldiers stopped firing, the Cheyenne charged straight for the wagons and killed all the soldiers. They fell upon the wagons in eager anticipation, but were very disappointed by what they found. Though they had hoped for weapons and ammunition, there was nothing in the wagons but bedding and mess chests.

When Walking Bear returned, he told the others in the council that the white men had been taught a lesson and would now obey the treaty they had signed.

“No,” Red Eagle said. “I fear that all you have done is anger the white man so that we will get no beef.”

“You want beef?” Walking Bear retorted, angry that Red Eagle did not respect his story of bravery in battle. “I will get beef for you. I will get all the beef you can eat.”

“How will you do such a thing?” Red Eagle asked.

“Are you an old man that you have forgotten the way of our people? I will get beef the way Cheyenne have always gotten food. I will find it, and I will bring it back. I will not wait for the white man to give it to us, as if we are children, pawing and mewing to suckle at the teat.”

Walking Bear’s words were angry and disrespectful of an old man who had, long ago, earned the respect of all his people. As a result, many who heard the words gasped.

Red Eagle stood up, and pulled his robe about him. He pointed. “Go,” he said. “Leave our village before you bring evil to us.”

“And if I say I do not wish to go, what can you do?” Walking Bear asked. He laughed, a disrespectful, guttural laugh. “You can do nothing, old man,” he taunted. “You are old and weak, and you have no medicine.”

Red Eagle said nothing, but he raised his hand into the air, then made a circular motion with his fingers. Then, there was the whirring sound of wind through feathers. A large eagle suddenly appeared swooping down out of the darkness. He made a pass at Walking Bear’s head, legs extended, claws bared. The eagle raked his claws across Walking Bear’s face, leaving three, parallel, bleeding gashes on his cheek. Then, with a graceful but powerful beat of his wings, the eagle soared back up to disappear in the darkness.

Those who watched the incident gasped and called out in shock and fear, but no one was more shocked or more frightened by what had just happened than Walking Bear himself.

Walking Bear put his hand to his cheek, ran the fingers across the cuts, then held them out to look at the blood, shining darkly in the firelight.

“How…?” Walking Bear started to ask, but he never finished his question.

“Leave,” Red Eagle said again, this time speaking very quietly, but with great authority.

“I will go,” Walking Bear replied. “I am not going because you have ordered me to, but because I can no longer live with men who fear to walk the path of a warrior. Who will come with me?” he asked loudly.

About two dozen young men stood up, standing silently in the night, their eyes shining red from the light of the fire.

Red Eagle looked at all of the young men, then nodded.

“Do you see that the bravest of our people have joined me?” Walking Bear asked.

“Go,” Red Eagle said. “Take your women and your children with you. You are no longer a part of this village.”

“Eeeyahhhh!!!!” Walking Bear shouted, and those who had stood to go returned the shout.

As Walking Bear and those who followed him left the village, their departure was greeted with silence, partly in stunned disbelief over what they were witnessing and partly in grief at losing members of their village.

Red Eagle spoke to the village. “I will say for the last time the name of Walking Bear. I tell you now to speak the names of those who left us. Then, after this day, do not say their names again, for they are no more.”

The villagers shouted the names of the warriors, and of the women and children of the warriors who left with them; then they began singing the lament of the dead for, as far as they were concerned, those who left the village that day were dead.

As Walking Bear and his warriors and their families moved away from Red Eagle’s village, he could hear the sounds of the death songs. He could also hear the sound of weeping from the women and children of his band as they mourned those who were left behind.

“Warriors!” he called. “Be of stout heart! We ride the path of the brave! Eeeyaaah!!!!”

The other warriors with him joined in the yell, as much to buck up their own spirits as to shut out the mournful sounds from the village.