Cry of the Hawk

The white man finally talks straight. Perhaps you should prepare to die.

Shad knew he could not let his eyes betray him. Never that. Instead, he let his eyes continue resting on the dark-skinned speaker.

If it is war you want, then do not wait. Let us begin here … and now.

When his hands finished, they went to grip the carbine, quietly moving it off his lap, held over the horse’s head.

At that moment, a trio of warriors showed up from the east, appearing over the hills to Sweete’s right. They were shouting, waving pieces of blanket overhead. What they said Shad was not able to pick up, only that it was Cheyenne, and not Sioux. The half dozen delegates stirred uneasily. Pawnee Killer savagely wrenched his pony around and tore off toward the long line of warriors.

“Get ready to make your stand,” Milner hissed.

“Not yet, we don’t,” Sweete warned. “I think they’ve spotted the soldiers getting close.”

The big warrior glared at the white men a moment, then signed for Sweete.

You have succeeded in living this day through, Indian-talker. Your soldiers come before we can dare take your scalps.

“You are Shahiyena,” Shad spoke the words in Cheyenne.

“I am,” the big one answered. “You speak our tongue.”

“Your name is Roman Nose?”

The war chief did not answer at first, only staring at the white tracker with less disdain now.

“I am Roman Nose.”

“You are known as a great warrior, a brave leader of your men,” Sweete replied. “I cannot believe a warrior of your stature would find honor in wiping out three white men so outnumbered by your own.”

Roman Nose smiled, reluctantly at first, then broadly. “What is your name?”

“Shad Sweete.”

“Sh-h-a-a-d Sweet-t-t,” he mimicked the words with emphasis on the hard consonants. “I will remember you. As a brave man, and one who talks straight.”

“Let’s get,” Hickok was ordering in a low voice, as calm as he could make it.

Sweete glanced at the heaving, roiling line of warriors, every one of them in turmoil now that the soldiers drew near the villages.

“Tell your soldiers to stop where they are,” Roman Nose ordered.

“They will not,” Sweete replied above the clamor of snorting ponies and clattering weapons, the shouts and jeers of warriors surging, throbbing across the prairie. “They have come to talk with you of peace … or war.”

“The soldiers must not come any closer to our villages,” Roman Nose demanded. “They frighten the women and little ones. Frighten the old ones.”

“If it is peace your bands want—then they have no reason to be frightened.”

The war chief appeared to think on that, then said something quietly to the other four headmen. They reined about and rode back to their wide front of armed warriors. Only once did Roman Nose glance over his shoulder, his eyes finding Shad Sweete.

A rattle of bit chain and a clopping of hooves arrested his attention. Sweet turned in the saddle as more than a dozen soldiers galloped up under a flutter of snapping guidons. A lieutenant held his arm up as most stopped. Two rode on, halting only when they were among the three scouts.

“Do they want a f-fight of it?”

With that recognizable stutter, Sweete glanced at the flushed, excited features of the youngest general in American military history, now relegated to the rank of lieutenant colonel in the newly formed U.S. Seventh Cavalry.

“Don’t think so, General Custer,” he answered. “They’re blustering, but I don’t figure they’ll—”

“General Hancock,” Custer interrupted the scout and turned toward the expedition commander, “let me throw a cordon around their village.”

“Capital idea, Custer! Do it. I don’t want a one of these savages sneaking out on us now.”

Then Hancock turned to Sweete and the others. “You’ve done well, gentlemen. Well, indeed. In a matter of moments, Custer’s Seventh will have this bunch of thieves and murderers surrounded. Then we can get down to the business of punishing the guilty parties.”

26

Moon of First Eggs

HE EARNED HIS name early in life.

Pawnee Killer.

He hated them. Almost as much as he hated the white man.

And lately he had learned some of the Pawnee up north of the Republican River had not only scouted into the Powder River country two winters back, but were now hiring on to be the eyes and ears for the white man’s army.

Pawnee Killer smiled. It was meant to happen.

As much as what he had been telling his band of Brule and the bands of Shahiyena Dog Soldiers who traveled with his people—the soldiers were bound to come.

Make no mistake—these were fighting bands.