All this the four friends knew, and more.
“I say we count coup on them,” Short Bull proposed.
The others looked at him.
“Wolf’s Tooth says there are nine,” Plenty Elk reminded him.
“So?”
“They will have guns,” Right Hand said.
“So?”
“So it does no good to count coup if you are killed counting it. We want to live to see our lodges again.”
Short Bull made a noise of mild disgust. “Are we stupid that we let them see us and shoot us? No. We stalk them. We wait. When one or two separate from the rest, we strike. We count coup. We take their horses and their weapons. We return to our people and they sing of our courage. You get to wear feathers in your hair as I do.”
“It appeals to me,” Wolf’s Tooth said.
Plenty Elk didn’t hide his dislike of the idea. “There are things you do not do if you have sense. You do not kick a skunk. You do not poke a sleeping bear with a stick. You do not hunt nine white men with guns.”
“I will only do it if the rest of you do,” Right Hand said.
Short Bull stepped to his horse. “Mount and we will follow them. They cannot be far ahead.”
“Wait,” Plenty Elk said. “Did you hear my words?”
“I heard the words of an old woman in the skin of a young man. Do you want to be a warrior, or would you rather cook and sew?”
“I want to go on breathing.”
“Who of us does not? You make of these whites more than they are. They will fall to our arrows and knives as would an Ute or a Nez Perce.”
“Stay here if you want,” Wolf’s Tooth said. “We will come get you when we have counted coup.”
With a sharp gesture of annoyance, Plenty Elk stepped to his animal. “Where you three go, I go. That is how it has always been. That is how it will always be.”
“Then stop complaining.” Short Bull reined up the gully. He rode with his lance at his side. His grip showed he was ready to throw it at an instant’s need.
The white men had followed the twists and turns of the gully for a long way. Finally their trail led up out of it—only to enter a dry wash and follow its serpentine windings.
“They do not want to be seen, these whites,” Wolf’s Tooth said.
“They hide from war parties,” Right Hand noted.
The four young Arapahos went around a bend. Ahead was an oval hollow roughly an arrow’s flight from side to side. They could see that the tracks crossed and went up and over the far slope. They kneed their horses and were halfway across when Short Bull’s pinto pricked its ears and whinnied.
As if that were a signal, figures materialized on the hollow’s rim. Nine men, all bristling with weapons, half wearing buckskins and most with beards. Sunlight glinted off rifle barrels and illuminated tobacco-stained teeth bared in vicious grins.
The four young warriors drew rein, startled.
“They were waiting for us,” Plenty Elk said. “They knew we were following them and lured us into a trap.”
One of the white men came down into the bowl. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat. He sauntered toward them with a casual, insolent air, his rifle in the crook of an elbow. He was no taller than the Arapahos but he was twice as broad, with shoulders wider than any man they had ever seen. His beard and hair were the color of a mountain lion’s hide, and his eyes were as flint. He stopped, spat a dark juice on the ground, and said a few strange words.
“We do not speak your tongue, white man,” Short Bull said.
The man cocked his head, his grin widening. “You Dog Eaters, yes?”
Their shock was considerable.
Right Hand recovered first and answered. “Yes. We are Arapaho. You speak our language?”
“I talk your tongue little,” the white man said. “It many winters since last talk.”
“How can a white man know our tongue?”
“Before you born, boy, I trap beaver. I find Arapaho warrior caught in ice. I help him.”
“Why are you in Arapaho country?” Short Bull demanded.
“Your country?” The white man laughed. “This land no Arapaho. This land no Cheyenne. No Sioux. No Blackfeet. This land buffalo. This land prairie dogs.”
“What do you do here?” Short Bull persisted.
A gleam came into the white man’s flinty eyes. “We hunt.”
“The big herds have gone south,” Right Hand said. “Come back in three moons and the plain will be covered with them.”
“We not hunt buffalo,” the white man responded. “We hunt hair.”
The four Arapahos looked at one another in mild confusion.
“Hair?” Plenty Elk said.
“Hair,” the white man said again. He opened a pouch and reached inside. Very slowly, chuckling all the while, he drew his hand out and extended his arm so they could see what he was holding.
“Scalps!” Plenty Elk exclaimed.
The white man had a string of half a dozen on a length of rope. Most were long and all were black and none left any doubt as to the race of those who lost them.
“Indian scalps,” Wolf’s Tooth growled.
“This what we hunt. This how we live.” The white man touched one. “This Otoe.” He plucked at another. “This Pawnee.” Yet another. “This Cheyenne woman.”
Short Bull shifted toward his friends. He said one word, quietly. “Flee.” Then he whipped around, raising his spear arm as he turned and tensed for the throw.
The boom of the white man’s rifle was like thunder. At the blast, the lower half of Short Bull’s face dissolved in a spray of skin and bone and blood, and he was catapulted off the back of his horse. He flew head over heels and came down with a thud.
The other three Arapahos scattered.
From the rim, the rest of the white men opened up. Some were laughing.
Right Hand bent low and streaked toward the west rim, but he barely brought his sorrel to a gallop when there was a splat and one of its eyes was no longer there. He clutched at the mane as the horse went into a roll. At the last moment he tried to throw himself clear and something struck his head a powerful blow that sent him plunging into a black pit.
Wolf’s Tooth and Plenty Elk wheeled their animals and raced back the way they came. Hornets buzzed their ears. Suddenly Wolf’s Tooth’s shoulder burst in a shower of blood. He swayed and would have fallen if not for Plenty Elk, who reined in close and leaned over to steady him. Then they were in the gully and flew like the wind.
Behind them, the white man with the flinty eyes howled with fury.
Chapter Two
Green was the color of life. Green was the color of the Manitoa in all things. Green was the color most revered by the Nansusequa. Once, they were a proud and peaceful people, living deep in the virgin woodland of the East. Now there were only five Nansusequa left. The rest had been massacred by outraged whites. It didn’t matter that the whites were to blame for the outrage; they wanted the land the Nansusequa lived on for themselves.
One family escaped the slaughter. Their peace chief, Wakumassee, fled with his wife and son and daughters. Their flight took them to the Mississippi River and across a nigh-endless sea of grass. After much hardship, they wound up at the base of emerald foothills, bumps compared to the snowbound peaks beyond that reared majestically miles high into the sky.
Fate brought them to a remote valley where Nate King befriended them and invited them to stay. Grateful beyond measure, they accepted. Every day Wakumassee gave thanks for the gift of King’s friendship and for the happiness of having a place where his loved ones were safe. A haven far removed from the greed and bigotry that cost the Nansusequa so dearly.