Cry of the Hawk

By the time Custer’s delegation was at the edge of the water to welcome a half dozen warriors wading across the stream, the sun had burst full and yellow as an egg yolk at the edge of the eastern plain. The air stirred with sudden new life as insects took to the wing, and the water beneath their horses’ hooves shimmered like liquid gold in the breaking light of jeweled morn.

“Pawnee Killer,” Sweete whispered to the officer beside him.

Custer said, “I recognize him. Back at McPherson—he told me what good friends he was to the white man.”

“He tell you how honest he was—and how he never lied to a soldier?”

“I believe I remember him saying something like that.”

“Then he was lying to you,” Sweete replied. “Watch his oily tongue, General. The sonofabitch opens his mouth, he’s lying. White or red—his kind of snake will cheat their own mother.”

“Hau!” came the greeting from the warrior at the center of the six bare-chested Brule when they entered the stream astride their multicolored ponies.

“How!” Custer replied.

“C’mon, General.” Sweete nudged his horse into motion. “Let’s go be sociable in the middle of the river.”

As the soldiers came up and halted, the warriors raised their arms in greeting, then presented their hands.

“They wanna shake, General—but I suggest you don’t go any closer than where you sit now.”

“All right,” Custer answered, making it plain to the warriors that his right hand was going to remain on the butt of his pistol. “Let’s see what Pawnee Killer has to say for himself—coming to steal my horses when he said he was my friend back at McPherson.”

Sweete flicked his eyes at Hook. “Get your hands limbered up, Jonah. You need to practice your sign as much as I need practice on my Lakota.”

When he had the chief’s answer, he told Custer, “Pawnee Killer says he’ll forgive you for getting lost and crossing his hunting ground, General. Forgive you for spoiling his pony raid.”

“He will …” Custer cleared his throat, drew himself up. “Tell Pawnee Killer that among my people we punish thieves and murderers. If any live among his people—they are the ones should be afraid for their lives.”

“He says his people are not thieves and they don’t murder white men. And he takes shame that you think with his warriors there are some with bad hearts for the white man.”

Custer snorted quickly. “What’s he take us for, Sweete? The snake just about ran off with half our herd an hour ago.”

“Claims he didn’t know it was you, Long Hair. Says his band will mosey on now—no hard feelings.”

“They want to pull out? Just like that?” Custer asked.

As Sweete started to reply, a young warrior brandishing a war club in his left hand and an old rifle in his right appeared on the far bank from the plum brush. Without hesitation, the warrior urged his pony into the stream, sending diamond drops into the golden air as he splashed noisily toward the conference.

“Hau!” shouted the newcomer as he came to a halt, shaking his weapons at the white men.

“Tell Pawnee Killer I’m growing angry!” Custer demanded, watching the far bank, hearing the brush rustle. “Now more warriors are coming when he guaranteed six only.”

From the plum and swamp-willow on the far side appeared a second unwelcome warrior, who reined into the stream. Then two more splashed into the water as the white men grew restless.

“Tell the chief he’s violating his word as a warrior,” Custer demanded.

As Shad Sweete’s words were spoken and Jonah Hook’s sign was made with his hands, Pawnee Killer smiled widely with big teeth in his small, feral face.

“The chief says his young warriors only wanna come say hello to the great soldier chief Long Hair. Says his men admire you—want to see you up close.”

“Not too close, Sweete. Tell him that if any more come—we will start our fight right here … and now.”

When the words were spoken in Lakota, the smile slipped from Pawnee Killer’s face like a man’s longhandles as he stood over a latrine trench.

“The chief wonders why you don’t trust your new friend.”

“Because he cannot control his warriors,” Custer replied. “Like those.”

Jonah and the rest watched another handful of warriors ride into the stream to join Pawnee Killer.

“That’s enough of this, Sweete. It’s plain they mean to do something underhanded here. Inform them there are many soldiers with repeating rifles in the brush behind me.”

Pawnee Killer held up his hand, causing the five warriors to halt halfway between the bank and midstream.

“Put your horn to your lips, bugler,” Custer directed, then turned quickly back to the old mountain man. “Tell the chief if any more come, my bugler here will signal the rest of my soldiers and there will be blood in the water this morning.”

Sweete sighed after the Brule leader had spoken. “Pawnee Killer wonders who will be the first to fall.”

“Tell him it will undoubtedly be both Pawnee Killer and Long Hair—chiefs die first.” Custer inched the pistol loose from his belt.

The Sioux’s flinty scowl was eventually replaced with a broad smile as he spoke once more.