Two Days in June

JUNE 24, 1876

THE WARRIOR FELL BACK against the rocks. His face bore a slash across his brow which bled freely. His chest and arms were covered in scratches, some shallow and only oozing blood, a couple deeper with blood flowing.

At only fourteen summers, his face glowed with satisfaction. He paid no heed to his injuries. A smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he looked to the object in his hands. It was the pinion feather from the she-eagle. Perhaps now he would no longer be known as Broken Wing.

His eyes scanned the dry prairie. To the west stretched the plains and the dust raised by the buffalo herds. His eyes followed up the riverbed of the Tšėške’kȯsáeo’hé’e, The Little Bighorn River. There was a dust cloud there too, a big one. Shading his eyes, he saw men on horses there and the sun glint off weapons aligned in two columns crossing over the ridge from the Rosebud.

He looked down. The sixty-foot drop daunted him. Climbing up here to the eagle aerie three days ago was a lot simpler than going down would be. He had been up here for three days with only water, and he felt weak. There was nothing to be done for it but to start. He tied the eagle feather into his long black hair and began his descent.

“Useless thing.” He cursed his wasted right leg as he descended the cliff, but the strength of his arms and left leg got him down with only a sharp scrape to the chest when he dislodged a foothold and hung by his fingertips. He looked again to the north and could no longer see the column of men, only the dust cloud that accompanied their progress. At the bottom, he picked up his walking stick and worked down the coulee to where his pony was hobbled. The crutch was polished and smooth where it lodged under his arm, scarred where it met the ground. He swung along smoothly upon it with years of practice.

His pony snuffled his hand and shook her buckskin hide to drive off the flies. He buried his face in her neck.

“Oh, my sweet girl.”

She blew air through her nose onto his stroking hand. Broken Wing took some dried bison from his parfleche and chewed it, relishing the moment with his pony and his food.

He adjusted the leather cinch and strapped the right foot in. Sliding the walking crutch onto his back with his bow, he levered himself onto her bare back, and she trotted at first until she cleared the rocky draw. Then, he eased her into a canter until they reached the Tšėške’kȯsáeo’hé’e. He slipped the strap on his right foot and slid off her back. She immediately dipped her head to the water and drank noisily. He squatted, his right leg awkwardly extended, and dipped his hand in the water.

His thirst quenched, he mounted again. “Home, Windspinner, and quickly.”

They advanced through a trot to a canter. Once across the river, he urged her into a gallop. He varied the pace, purposefully walking and resting his mount at times when she began to sweat because he had a half day’s ride ahead. He felt like a whole man now, not the one-legged Broken Wing he had been since the white man’s disease crippled him. His hair streaming out behind him, he clamped his thighs to Windrunner’s barrel, and they rode as one being. Broken Wing might not be able to do some riding tricks such as standing on the back of a galloping pony or be able to slide off and vault back on again, but for sheer speed, he had won many races.

He was Tsistahe, one of the People. The Cheyenne were known as the best riders on the plains. He caught himself humming a childhood song and smiled. It was about a proud buffalo robed Cheyenne gifting the first horse to a poor Lakota Sioux warrior and how they became friends. Broken Wing smiled. The scarred face of Crazy Horse superimposed itself over the poor Sioux warrior. Broken Wing quickly wiped that visage and the song from his mind. It wouldn’t do for Tȟašúŋke Witkó, a chief of the Lakota Sioux, to hear that song.

There was no question that the Sioux were great warriors, Broken Wing thought as he viewed the upcoming village. The tipis stretched on for as far as he could see, and this section was only the Lakota Sioux. The Cheyenne were farther north. Both had been at Rosebud Creek for the Sun Dance.

He rode down the river and crossed it at the ford, unstrapping his foot and sliding off his pony in front of his tipi in one fluid motion.

His brother, only five summers old, Little Black Elk, ran out of the tipi. “Brother Broken Wing is back. He’s back.”

Broken Wing gave his pony to his brother. “Take my pony to the herd, Little Black Elk.” He slipped the cinch and patted the pony on the rump. “Get along with you.”

His mother, Quiet Walk, and his father, Crooked Nose, emerged from the tipi. Quiet Walk beamed with pride when she saw the eagle pinion.

“You were successful,” said Crooked Nose, as he held his son by the shoulders.

“Yes, father, I was.” He unconsciously touched the eagle pinion. “But that is not important right now. Coming back, I saw whiteman cavalry riding up along the bluffs a day’s march to the south of the camp, following our backtrail from the Rosebud. There were many.”

“How many? What was their disposition, did they have infantry or just cavalry? Did they have cannon?” his father asked in quick succession.

“I couldn’t see the end of the column, but I did see ten hands of hands of them, maybe as many as days in the year. As many as the Cheyenne warriors here at least. I saw only mounted men and no cannon, and I saw a troop riding white horses, maybe ten hands.”

“The white horse troop rides with the Long Hair. So at least two hundred-fifty. We must inform the war council. We will go first to the Cheyenne chiefs Two Moons and Wooden Leg.”

As they walked to Two Moons’ tipi, two of Broken Wings’ friends walked near him. “Aha, Hawk’s Flight, look at friend Broken Wing. He wears new plumage. Perhaps Late Bloom will pay attention to him now.”

Hawk’s Flight laughed. “Do you think she will allow his spear to penetrate her thick thatch? I think it may be too short. He is still a youngling and barely has any hair on him.”

Broken Wing gave the two of them a hard look. The joking irritated him, but it made him proud as well. Hawk’s Flight and Flint were both older than he, one and two summers, and already respected warriors. Flint, at sixteen summers, owned three ponies. Now that he was a man recognized, he would take a warrior’s prerogatives and responsibilities. And then there was Late Bloom.

“Get on with you, Hawk’s Flight. I have more important duties right now.”

Taken aback by his seriousness, Hawk’s Flight stepped away. “Duties, is it?” He turned to Flint.” Do you think it was my comment about Late Bloom’s blooming bush?”

“Get away with you.”

As they walked away, Flint turned back. “Broken Wing?” “Yes.” His tone expressed his exasperation. “Your quest. The eagle pinion looks fine. Very good.” Flint turned away and caught up with Hawk’s Flight.

—

THEY FOUND WOODEN LEG sitting in front of his tipi with Two Moons. Broken Wing allowed his father to speak for him, answering only when questioned. Wooden Leg was a member of the Elkhorn Scrapers warrior’s guild since the early age of fourteen summers. Though Wooden Leg was only twenty-eight summers now, Broken Wing found his steely gaze intimidating. Chief Two Moons, though older, was more congenial and easier to talk to. Both had fought at the Battle of the Rosebud only a week before.

When he had finished the report of his sighting of the Long Knives, there was some discussion among the adults. “We will take this information to the other chiefs among the Cheyenne. Mayhap, they will send out scouts to the south. Thank you, young man. And congratulations upon your quest and eagle’s pinion. It is a fine one.”

Walking away, Broken Wing turned to his father. “Do you think they heard what I saw, father?”

“It is not for me to say they did not, but I suspect not. Perhaps the scouts will support you.”

“Do you believe me? Will we be prepared to fight them?”

Crooked Nose stopped and looked hard at his son with his dark eyes. He gripped his son by the shoulders. “You have always seen and told true. I believe you. Perhaps Wooden Leg and Two Moons do not. You are young. We will be prepared. But tonight, we will celebrate the success of your vision quest.” He stroked the eagle’s pinion. “This must have been quite a struggle?”

Broken Wing shrugged but he felt a surge of pride within at his father’s compliment.

“It was. She didn’t want to give it up.”

Crooked Nose wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “Go to the river and bathe. Your mother won’t allow you in the tipi otherwise.”

—

BROKEN WING FINISHED THE last piece of bison tongue he could possibly eat and shook his head when Quiet Walk offered him more.

“Have some more bison hump or tongue, son.”

“No, mother, please.” He patted his bulging stomach. “Already I will be dragging my belly on the ground.”

“I will wrap some of the tongue up for you to eat later.” She picked up a scrap of clean bison skin from a basket and cut a generous slice. She handed it to him, and he put it into his parfleche.

“Thank you, mother."

His mother beamed at him and stroked the eagle pinion woven into his hair. “I am so proud of you, my warrior son.”

Broken Wing felt the wave of pride and, also, a residue of shame as he levered himself up on his stick. His problem with his leg wasn’t her fault. As far as he knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just was. It was something that always reminded him, tortured him in small ways.

He stroked his belly. “Thank you for the meal, mother. I think I will walk a bit.” He bent down and kissed her on top of her graying head.

Crooked Nose stood up as well. “I will join you, warrior son.” He smiled at Quiet Walk.

Outside the tipi, Crooked Nose walked toward the gentle curves of the river.

“Go on with your friends now. Be sure that they are prepared. If the Long Knives march where you said, they will not attack until the day after tomorrow, probably at dawn. We shall be ready.”

—

“AH, HERE IS THE serious one.” Flint poked Hawk’s Flight in the side.

“It is the great warrior Broken Wing.”

“Too great a man now to speak with the likes of us I am sure.”

“There is a reason I am serious, unlike the two of you.”

“Aha, perhaps he has noticed the beautiful Late Bloom and the flowers that bloom so profusely upon her bush.”

Broken Leg put his weight on his good left leg and spun, crashing his stick against Hawk’s Flight’s shins.

“What was that for?” Hawk’s Flight rubbed his legs and feigned innocence.

“Hawk’s Flight, that jest is getting old. I am serious because I have seen the soldiers coming, many of them.”

Flint and Hawk’s Flight quit their jesting and paid attention now.

“I saw them from the eagle’s aerie. Many soldiers with their horses. The white horses which ride with the Long Hair.”

“The Long Hair, the Sioux, call him. The one we Tsistahe call the Creeping-Panther-that-Attacks-at-the-Morning-Star.”

“The same. Though I did not see who led, only the long column following our back trail from the Rosebud. I have told Wooden Leg and Two Moons.”

“Then you have told the elders. We don’t have anything to worry about.”

“My father does not know if my report will be considered. I think perhaps not. I say we should be ready to fight.”

Flint thought a moment and nodded. “That is good thinking. Let us tell our fathers and our friends. If we are wrong, we are just foolish young warriors eager for battle, practicing war games.”

Broken Wing nodded in agreement. “Tomorrow we can paint ourselves and scout.”

—JUNE 25, 1876

THE NEXT DAY AT mid-morning, Broken Wing painted his face black to symbolize his injured leg. Then he painted a long white stripe for the eagle’s pinion. Little Black Elk brought his pony from the herds, and he adjusted the cinch.

Flint, Hawk’s Flight, and two others galloped up and slid off their ponies. They were painted, as well.

“We have Fire Brush and Yellow Dust here,” Hawk’s Flight said. “We have told them of your sighting and our fathers, as well.”

“Do any of you have friends among the Sioux?” asked Broken Wing.

“I do. I will ride down there and warn all I can.” Yellow Dust mounted his pony and sat him backward.

“I as well.” Fire Brush leaped on his pony and stood on his back. “We will tell we are of the Band of the Lone Eagle’s Pinion.” He smiled and signaled his pony to move.

“We will ride, as well.” Broken Wing mounted and cinched in his right leg. He hated that leg but had lived with it so long it was only an afterthought. “My father will be ready if the Long Knives come.”

“My father believes you as well.” Hawk’s Flight slid onto his pony.

Flint mounted his own pony. “My father says it is better to be ready. I do not know if he believes you, but he will be prepared.”

Together they cantered toward the river.

—

THEY RODE TOWARD THE looping river of the Greasy Grass. It was a peaceful morning, as quiet, or at least as undisturbed as any Broken Wing could remember. Children played at various games, the young watched over by mothers engaged at cooking, or washing in the river. Several warriors bathed lazily in the river, looking askance at Broken Wing and his painted band, then turning away to laugh.

Broken Wing continually scanned the bluff across the river for a glint of sun on metal or a puff of dust that was out of place. There was nothing.

At mid-day, they stopped to water the ponies and squatted to eat a bit of dried meat.

“Ah, I love your mother’s tongue. It is the best.” Hawk’s Flight chewed in an exaggerated fashion, licking his lips.

Broken Wing whipped his crutch up and pushed Hawk’s Flight down in a puff of yellow dust.

“Now, what was that for?”

“Let us ride out.” Broken Wing held out his crutch to pull Hawk’s Flight up.

They patrolled the river and surrounding coulees until near mid-afternoon. “Do you think the Long Knives will attack this late in the day?” Flint asked.

“Let us make one more pass along the coulee. If we see nothing, we will begin at dawn, agreed?”

They rode down the valley following the twisting path of the lazy river. Near the junction of the creek and the broad ford, a noise stopped Broken Wing. It could be an animal or just the wind, but the sound was out of place. Flint pointed. There was a puff of dust rising from the brush along the coulee. The three boys dismounted and led their ponies across the ford into the brush along the creek.

The sound came again, this time a quiet creak of leather, then again, a few minutes later a clink of metal on metal. The boy warriors backed further into the brush.

“Ride to the fathers. It is the Long Knives. Do it quietly,” Broken Wing said to Flint. “The attack comes now.”

Flint withdrew from the thicket and rode off.

—

BROKEN WING HEARD THE popping sounds of gunfire drifting up from up-river. He glanced toward the river and saw his father, Crooked Nose, and his friend Flint as well as Flint’s and Hawk’s Flight’s fathers. They hid together in the brush. “It comes now,” Broken Wing said. His father nodded. “I hear them, those that attack the Sioux and these that sneak up along the coulee.”

The soldiers filed past the brush line where Broken Wing and his half a dozen followers waited. He looked toward the Tsistahe camp but could only see the smoke rising. The camp was not visible. Through the leaves and brush, he could see the cavalry mounting up quietly. Crooked Nose put his hand on Broken Wing’s arm cautioning silence.

Of a sudden, a bugle sounded, and the Long Knives rode at a disciplined trot from the coulee toward the ford. Certainly, they did not expect resistance. There were probably ten hands of hands of them although the end of the column could not be seen. It was far up the coulee still. He rose up above the brush line to view the river and the camp. Men were rushing from the tipis. The Long Knives charge stopped suddenly, as if unsure. The beginning of the column dismounted and formed a skirmish line with every fourth trooper taking the reins of the other three back behind the lines.

More men rushed from the camp to the river. Just among the Tsistahe, there were soon at least twice as many as the Long Knives. The cavalrymen fired, and a woman pulling her child from the river collapsed into the water.

More Cheyenne fired their weapons. Four or five hands of them crept up into the brush line behind Broken Wing. Another volley came from the skirmish line. The massed Cheyenne across the water cried out in anger and began crossing the river, stopping momentarily to fire their weapons. The skirmish line faltered in its exchange as if unsure as the men still mounted turned north and began working out of the cramped coulee.

Behind Broken Wing, a cry began, “Aieee. Aieee. Kill them.” Arrows flew high, though short, and gunshots resounded, cutting through the brush. The enemy line broke, and the men began to retreat up the hill, pursued by the Cheyenne in the brush line as well as those who had now crossed the river.

Broken Wing mounted Windspinner and followed the Long Knives’ retreat. He was frustrated that he could not reach them no matter how hard he pulled the bow.

The Long Knives mounted a defense at the top of a small hill. Some killed their horses for protection. Their courage did not break, and they fired back fusillade after fusillade of bullets. Many of the Cheyenne had repeating rifles which, though not as accurate at long range, were much superior to the weapons the Long Knives carried at the shorter range of this battle. But in no case could Broken Wing bring his bow to bear.

He saw a warrior break loose from a pack of bowmen. Riding fast and low, protected by his pony, he crossed the field, rising at the last to loose his arrow. He ducked low, his body protected by his pony and rode back to the victorious howls of his group of bowmen.

He felt his father’s hand upon his shoulder. “Hold, son. Hold.”

Broken Wing’s vision tightened down until all he could see was a narrow band surrounding one Long Knife. He held his position until he could bear it no longer. With a howl of fury, he kicked Windspinner into a gallop. He lay low on his pony’s back, hanging from the cinch. Closer, and closer still. His vision zeroed in, and he rose up at the last moment to loose an arrow. The Long Knife was turning toward him and took the arrow in the shoulder. A look of shock passed over his face as he reached for the shaft of the arrow. Broken Wing loosed a second arrow which took him in the throat.

Broken Wing cried out in exultation, “Aieee,” as he ducked low down below the shoulder of Windspinner and rode away. She took three galloping steps and fell, shot from behind. Broken Wing, because of the cinch, could not jump free and his pony fell upon him. The pain as his pony fell upon his good leg was not immediately apparent, so great was his moment of triumph, but as she rolled, the bones in his leg broke with an audible snap.

He lay low below his pony. It seemed to Broken Wing that the bullets flew like locusts through the summer grasses, or like the drops of rain that fell so hard and closely that they bounced from the rocks they fell upon. Windspinner tried to rise and was hit by another ball. Broken Wing pulled out his knife. With tears in his eyes, he reached around and cut her throat.

“Oh, my dear Windspinner, you are the one to make the final sacrifice. I am so proud and so sorry.”

—

THE FIGHT, THOUGH INTENSE, did not last beyond a hand of the sun. Late in the battle, Broken Wing saw Tȟašúŋke Witkó ride across the field and plunge his lance into a Long Knife.

It was over. Women from the village walked through the crowded dead of the Long Knives, killing all with a club who were not dead and taking battle souvenirs. Cheyenne and some Sioux fired captured weapons into the air and called out their victory. Broken Wing lay back and watched the clear blue sky.

He woke from his daze to his friends, Hawk’s Flight and Flint loosening the cinch on his foot and lifting the pony from his leg. Crooked Nose pulled his body from beneath the pony and lay him upon a travois. Broken Wing looked down and saw bone sticking through his skin, then up into his father’s sad eyes.

Another figure came into his view. It was a lightskinned Oglala Sioux, lithe on his feet. Broken Wing lifted his upper body to meet Tȟašúŋke Witkó.

Tȟašúŋke Witkó looked down at Broken Wing’s shattered leg.

“You have made a great sacrifice, boy.”

“I am boy no longer. I killed a Long Knife right up there. I shot him in the shoulder and neck with an arrow. Did I win my gun from that act?”

Tȟašúŋke Witkó signaled to Hawk’s Flight to look. He trotted up the hill and lifted the dead body.

“Bring the rifle.” Tȟašúŋke Witkó asked, “Are you the one who brought us the warning of the Long Knives?”

“I am, yesterday, on my vision quest.”

“I name you Long Sight.” Tȟašúŋke Witkó pressed his thumb into the red soil zigzag painted from the crown of his forehead to his chin and pushed the print onto Broken Wing’s forehead. He gave the proffered rifle into Broken Wing’s hands. Broken Wing fell back onto the travois.

“Was it a great victory then?”

“Yes, a great victory.” Tȟašúŋke Witkó said the words, but his eyes looked sad through the anger.

“Thank you, Tȟašúŋke Witkó. I am satisfied.”

“A great victory.” Tȟašúŋke Witkó repeated the words as he turned away.

The pony leading the travois started down the hill.

R.L. has been writing since he was a teenager. Taking a major in linguistics at university, his interest in anthropology and language development has frequently played a part in his writing. While studying linguistics he also took a minor in German, so he could read Hesse in the original as well as a teaching credential. He has taught for ten years as well as been an accountant for thirty-five. Along the way he and his wife owned a kite shop on the Oregon coast for ten years and lived on a thirty-six foot sailboat for ten years which they sailed down the coast from Seattle to Monterey. Among his favorite thousand authors are Zane Grey, Herman Hesse, D. H. Lawrence, C. J. Cherryh, Lawrence Durrell, Ursula Le Guin, Anne McCaffrey, Kurt Vonnegut, Jacqueline Cleary and Diana Gabaldon. He has been published in Wings, Pass the Hemlock, The Whale Song Quarterly, Ariel Chart, and The Wyrd. His first novel, Two Blankets: A Novel of the West, will be published by Oghma Creative in July of 2019. R. L. Adare lives with his wife of 35 years and their manx cat, Pixie, in South-western Oregon.