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  Little Wolf, paralyzed for a moment, finally sprang to life. He must get to Spotted Pony and Buffalo Woman! He scrambled to his feet and started running as fast as he could toward the village. There was no thought of personal safety. His only thought was to get to his parents. As he approached the outer ring of tipis, many of which were burning by then, he began to gather his senses. It would be foolish, and of no help to his parents, to charge headlong into the melee, getting himself killed in the process. He immediately dropped to the ground to survey the situation before proceeding.

  The village was in complete chaos. All of the lodges in the center of the circle were blazing. There were bodies littered everywhere, sprawled in grotesque postures, killed as they tried to run. The bodies were so many that the troopers’ horses could not avoid trampling them under their hooves. The sound of the massacre was a steady roar in his ears as the soldiers continued firing at living targets as well as those already dead. Little Wolf could not understand why he had thus far escaped detection. He should turn and escape while he could still go back to the river but he could not. He still felt he had to try to help his parents. He made his way through the burning tipis as best he could, stopping to pretend to be dead whenever a trooper came near. Then, crawling and running, he finally reached the back of Buffalo Woman’s tipi. Half of it was already destroyed, the remains smoldering. But half was still intact, the half that covered their beds. As he lay on his belly, working away at the tough buffalo hide with his knife, he glanced toward the council lodge. There, on a pole, a white flag along with an American flag was fluttering listlessly in the faint breeze. He was to learn later that, when the attack first started, Black Kettle had put up the white flag. When the soldiers ignored it, he also put up an American flag to show that the village was peaceful. But nothing slowed the assault on his peaceful village.

  When he had ripped a place large enough to slip through, Little Wolf crawled into the half burned tipi. He was not prepared for what he saw. Buffalo Woman was sprawled across the cook fire, her face broken apart by the bullet that had killed her. In what once was the entrance to the tipi, Spotted Pony lay facedown, his bone-handle hunting knife in his hand, his bare back riddled with bullet holes. Little Wolf felt as if his heart stopped beating. His rage filled his throat to the point of choking him. His anger overwhelmed him and, without realizing it, he began to roar with the pain of it, a primordial scream, born in his very soul. Hearing his cry of anguish, a trooper turned his horse toward the source of the sound and came face to face with him. In his fury, Little Wolf did not hesitate. He drew his knife and leaped toward the mounted soldier. The soldier had time to raise his carbine and get off one shot before Little Wolf’s knife found his stomach. The shot hit Little Wolf in the shoulder and he slid to the ground. The young trooper, realizing he was wounded, wheeled his horse around in panic and galloped off for help. Because of this, Little Wolf’s life was spared.

  He lay dazed for a few moments, his shoulder rapidly becoming numb. The sound of attack had decreased from the steady roar of gunfire and now individual firing could be heard as the soldiers killed those who were still barely alive. Little Wolf knew he was wounded but he couldn’t be sure how badly. He expected to feel the impact of the fatal bullet at any second but apparently the soldiers paid little attention to the body lying next to that of his father. His shoulder began to throb but, other than that, there seemed to be no serious impairment. He laid motionless and held his breath when a soldier rode by, no more than ten feet from him. The soldier stopped, looked at him, then rode on. Very deliberately he rolled over on his side so he could see the area around him. Right then there was no one near him and he knew there would probably be no better opportunity to escape. So he slowly slid around until he was partially hidden by the body of his father. Then pushing himself backward through the ashes of the tipi, he managed to slide back through the opening he had first come through. Even though he knew it didn’t matter to Buffalo Woman’s spirit, he paused to roll her body from the ashes of the cook fire.

  There were soldiers everywhere and later, he felt sure Man Above was watching over him because he was able to snake his way through the burning village and down along the riverbank. Once he reached the spot from which he had first seen the soldiers that morning, he felt it was safe enough to stop and examine his wound before going on. There had been a great loss of blood, but the wound didn’t look too bad and, at this point, it didn’t seem to impair the use of his arm. The thought flashed briefly through his mind that it would have been an honorable thing to have stayed and fought. After all, to die young in battle was preferable to an Arapaho warrior, more so than dying of old age. His rational mind had rejected that fate in preference to surviving so that he would be able to take a greater measure of revenge in the future. “I’ll fight another day,” he promised his dead parents. “This is not the last of it.” At this sorrowful point in his young life he could not know that this cowardly raid on this peaceful village would be the primary cause of the Cheyenne-Arapaho wars that followed in the years to come. The only thing he was certain of was that he was at war with the U.S. Army. His only thought now was to make his way northwest and find Black Feather and his brothers in the mountains. The sounds of the army mopping up the remains of the village could still be heard clearly when he crossed the river and set out to find his friend.

  * * *

  Luck was still with him for, when he had gone no more than a mile from the river, he found a horse. It was a small paint, an Indian pony evidently wandering back toward the village after having been frightened away during the attack. Taking great care not to startle the horse, Little Wolf was able to walk up to it and take hold of the reins. There was no saddle, only an Indian bridle, and from the look of the broken left rein, the horse had evidently been tied outside someone’s tipi when the shooting started. Someone’s favorite horse, he thought as he climbed on and kicked the little paint into a gallop. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the fort right away. The paint had an easy gait—little wonder she was someone’s favorite. Little Wolf recalled the first time he had jumped on someone else’s horse and fled. That time it was the opposite situation—on a white man’s horse, running from Indians. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  His journey took a good deal longer than he had anticipated. He stuck mainly to the east of the mountains, riding the plains. It was his intention to get as far north as he could, farther than any soldiers were stationed. And he could make better time, cover more miles, if he kept to the plains. He pushed the paint, riding as long as he could each day before darkness forced him to rest and find food. It proved easier to find food for the horse than for himself and, as the days passed, he began to weaken. Adding to his problems was the wound in his shoulder. While it didn’t seem to be serious at first, it began to swell and get more and more painful as each day passed. After a while he developed a fever. Still he pushed on. At times he would suddenly awaken to find that he had fallen asleep while riding. In time, he got to the point where he lost track of distance and days. Because of the cold and the pain from his wound, he kept pushing the pony on and on until it was in danger of being ridden to death. Little Wolf was too far out of his mind with fever to realize this.

  At night, when he did rest, Spotted Pony and Buffalo Woman, Black Feather, Morning Sky, Sleeps Standing, Red Shirt, Black Kettle all walked through his dreams. Upon waking, he would look around expecting to see them only to find that he was alone. When he reached the point where he knew he could no longer go on without food, he turned west into the mountains, in hopes of finding something.

  Climbing up a steep rise toward a forest of pines, the horse balked. Little Wolf prodded her with his heels but the horse was too weak to go on. He had ridden her to death. The realization of it served to shock the boy back to his senses and he immediately regretted having abused the animal. It was a stupid thing to do and something he would never do again. By then his fever was so hot that he had to force himself t
o think. At least the horse saved his life one last time, giving him something to eat.

  He stayed there and rested after he had eaten the warm liver of the horse and he seemed to regain at least some measure of strength, enough to enable him to think clearly about his survival. He couldn’t stay there long. True, the horse represented food but how long would it be before he would have to fight wolves, buzzards and other scavengers for it? He had to move on. That was the thought he concentrated upon, to keep moving, choosing not to let his mind dwell on the truth of his plight—that he didn’t know where he was going or how he could survive with nothing more than a knife in a rugged country. What if there was a big snowfall before he could find a place to rest? He forced himself up on his feet and started down the hillside toward a small stream.

  He lay on his belly, drinking the cool water, when he heard something. Alert now, he listened. There! He heard it again, not a loud noise, but it was definitely the soft pad of a horse’s hoof. Slowly he eased back into a pine thicket and cautiously rose to his feet, scanning the forest below him. After a moment, he saw him, a man riding a mule. It was difficult to make out the man’s features but he was not an Indian. That much Little Wolf could tell. He never once considered approaching the man and asking for help. He was a white man, maybe a soldier, but definitely an enemy.

  From the direction he was heading, Little Wolf could estimate approximately where the man would cross the creek so he moved to a position just above it. Drawing his knife, he could hear the man scolding his mule as he prodded it across the creek, unaware of the ambush awaiting him. He waited, and when the rider was exactly opposite the thicket, Little Wolf summoned all the strength he had left and launched his body at the man.

  CHAPTER 8

  Squint Peterson figured it was pure luck the wounded, half starved boy had picked him to ambush. Most any other white man would probably have shot him right off instead of patching him up. The boy healed rapidly. Squint found that a little rest and nourishment was really all that was needed once the bullet was removed and the infection staved off. He was lucky. The bullet had lodged in the fleshy part of his shoulder instead of smashing bone and costing him the use of his arm. Squint’s clumsy surgery had left a huge hole that would in time heal but would leave one hell of a scar. The boy didn’t seem to care about that as long as the arm was all right.

  You could say the two of them hit it off right from the start. Yet Squint could still detect an air of mild distrust on the part of this white boy turned Injun. It was as if the boy appreciated what Squint had done for him but he was half expecting him to revert to the ways of the other whites he had recently come into contact with. Squint didn’t blame him. The boy had nothing but hard times every time he had run into whites. There was little doubt where the lad’s loyalties lay. Still they got along due to a certain amount of respect they held for each other. Of course some ground rules had to be established. Right off, the boy let Squint know that he was Arapaho and “not no damn white man” and his name was Little Wolf, not Robert. Squint allowed as how that was fine with him. He could be Pocahontas if he wanted to as long as he swore he would never tell anybody the location of his secret camp.

  “I got to have your word on that,” Squint demanded.

  At first the boy thought he was joking, but one look at the mountain man’s stern countenance convinced him he was dead serious. “I ain’t gonna tell,” he shrugged.

  “I got to have more than that,” Squint pressed. “I don’t know what you consider holy—God, the sun, Man Above or what. But whatever it is, I want you to swear on it. I saved your bacon when I brung you here and I don’t want nobody else knowing where this camp is.”

  “All right, dammit, I swear!” Little Wolf was getting his hackles up a little. If he said he would do something, he would do it. If he said he wouldn’t tell something, he wouldn’t tell it. He didn’t appreciate anybody doubting his word. Arapaho warriors didn’t lie. “I swear on the name of my father, Spotted Pony,” he added, still testy. “If that ain’t good enough for you, you can kiss my Arapaho ass.”

  They glared at each other for a long moment before Squint burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, son, I forgot who I was dealing with.” From that moment forward, they got along perfectly.

  As each day passed, Little Wolf grew stronger. His shoulder soon healed to the point where he regained complete use of it. Had it not been for the heavy snows that had sealed up the river valley, he might have been on his way. As it was, travel would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible. So he had little choice but to remain as Squint’s guest for a while longer. After the first few days of bad weather, Squint would track out through the snow to check and reset his traps, leaving in the morning and returning usually by early afternoon. He never invited Little Wolf to accompany him. He figured if the boy wanted to go with him, he would say so. He knew he was taking a chance on losing his horses and everything else by leaving the boy alone in his camp. But he figured it wasn’t much of a risk. For one thing, he kept all the weapons with him and the boy would be easy enough to track in the deep snow. Squint felt confident in his ability to catch him. More than that, Squint sensed a definite quality of honesty and integrity in the boy and he didn’t really believe Little Wolf would repay his kindness with treachery. After another week, the snows had piled up so deep in the valley that Squint found it to be too great an effort to go out at all so they both settled in to wait out the winter.

  When Squint fashioned his winter camp two summers before, he hadn’t counted on having a guest. So the half cave, half lean-to was now a little crowded when the winter snows drove them inside. To remedy this, Little Wolf and Squint worked to expand the lean-to, using some of the logs Squint had cut for firewood as walls, covering them with branches and hides. They moved the fire pit out of the cave and into a corner of the new addition. This proved to be quite satisfactory, with a hole to let the smoke out of the hide roof and the rock walls of the cave acting to reflect and retain the heat. But it was still confining. Little Wolf found himself longing for the room and comfort of Buffalo Woman’s tipi, but at least their camp was warm and dry.

  Snowed in as they were for a long period of time, and in such confined space, the two strangers were bound to end up either killing each other or becoming close friends. In this case it was the latter. During the long winter days Little Wolf’s stern countenance gradually melted and he allowed his guard to relax. Squint was grateful for the company to help him while away the long days and nights. He had wintered alone the year before and had really had some thoughts about the possibility of going loco. He had known it to happen to other men who chose to wait out the winter alone in the mountains. Most of the ones who made it through without losing their minds had an Indian woman to keep them occupied. While Little Wolf couldn’t provide some of the pleasures that a female might have, he at least provided conversation on a fairly intelligent level. In addition, Little Wolf helped take care of the animals and helped supplement their food stores.

  Squint had stocked his camp well with jerky, pemmican and hardtack to carry him when the weather was too bad to get out of his little hideaway. But naturally, he didn’t count on an extra mouth to feed. It turned out to be no problem, however, for he found Little Wolf to be a highly skilled hunter. The boy had spent some time after the first light snow searching the mountainside for a suitable young ash to fashion into a bow. When he found what he determined to be a good specimen, he shaped a sturdy limb into a bow of about four feet in length. Squint, an interested observer in the project, wasn’t overly confident in the effectiveness that could be achieved with the rather crude-looking weapon. But, as he watched Little Wolf string his bow with antelope sinew and wrap hide thongs around the midpoint for a grip, he became more impressed. Arrows were fashioned from the same tree, shaped by passing them through a hole drilled in a piece of horn. After smoothing the shafts by rubbing them with a grooved stone, Little Wolf attached stone heads by wrapping them with sinew. As t
he final touch, to make the arrow spin in flight, he added feathers from a blackbird. When the weapon was completed to Little Wolf’s satisfaction, he took it out to test it. Squint was amazed at the power and accuracy of the weapon. After only a short period of practice, Little Wolf was familiar enough with his new bow to become deadly accurate.

  The winter was hard. Squint could not remember one that had been more severe, but there was never any shortage of meat. There were plenty of elk and deer in the mountains, even though most of the animals had moved down to winter pastures. They were easy enough to track in the deep snow. The only hard part was transporting the meat. Little Wolf proved to be quite skillful in stalking the animals and very seldom failed to bring one down when he could manuever into position for a legitimate shot with his bow. Squint liked the fact that this method of killing was silent. He didn’t expect much activity in the mountains in the dead of winter but Indians had to hunt in the winter, same as him, and a rifle could be heard a long way.

  The days were bitter cold and any prolonged exertion outside seemed to sap the strength right out of a man. So they tried to hunt only when they had to. Finally it got so cold that Squint became worried about his animals, afraid they might freeze in the shelter he had built for them. Had there been room, he would have considered bringing them inside with him and Little Wolf. The two of them spent the better part of one day trying to insulate the shelter with pine boughs. As a final precaution, Squint dug a fire pit in the stable and built a fire. He didn’t like having to use up his supply of firewood on two fires, but he couldn’t take a chance on losing the horses. He stayed out with them for a few hours that night until he was satisfied they were going to be all right and the fire was banked enough to keep it alive till morning.

  “I was beginning to think you froze,” Little Wolf commented when Squint returned to the lean-to.