Stone Hand Read online

  Black Kettle exchanged glances of frustration with the two elders. “It is as we have talked. This man is determined to push us all into war. He will have us all dead.” He turned back to Stone Hand. “The people have decided to make treaties with the soldiers. It is the only way for the village to survive. If you are to remain with the people, then you must lay aside your weapons and smoke the pipe with the soldier chief.”

  Stone Hand’s response was bitter and he spat his words at the three old men. “I will never smoke the pipe with the white man. I will leave this village of women and toothless old men and go to the north to join the Sioux. Maybe their men still walk upright and refuse to crawl before the soldiers like camp dogs.”

  Black Kettle ignored the angry young man’s insults. “Yes, that is best for the people.”

  * * *

  So it was that the violent young warrior, whom the army wanted to capture more than any other, rode away unmolested, while behind him Custer’s cavalry was already advancing toward the peaceful village on the Washita.

  The massacre of Black Kettle’s village created no sorrow in Stone Hand’s heart. It merely served to strengthen his hatred for the soldiers. He was contemptuous of Black Kettle’s peace efforts from the first and Custer’s cowardly attack on the village only confirmed his opinion of the white man’s intentions to slaughter all Indians, peaceful or otherwise.

  When he left Black Kettle’s village on that morning, Stone Hand rode to the Cheyenne camp on the Red River. It was here he learned of the massacre on the Washita when, several days later, a few survivors of the raid straggled into camp. The news of the raid caused great fear and concern among the people. They were afraid that the soldiers would come there next. A council was called to discuss their options. Like Black Kettle, they, too, had refused to go to the reservation, still hoping to make peace with the soldiers while remaining free on their own hunting grounds.

  Stone Hand sat back away from the front of the council lodge, listening to the wailing account of the surprise attack that had killed most of his father’s people. One Elk, his arm badly shattered by a rifle ball, was speaking now. He told the council that the white soldiers were too many and the people were starving. It was time to go to the reservation. The old ways were gone. It would be foolish to continue to resist. When One Elk sat down, there was much discussion over his words. Yellow Hand agreed. It was suicide, he said, to defy the soldier chief’s demands that all Indians must return to the reservation. Stone Hand grunted and all heads turned to hear his words.

  “I am sick to my stomach of this talk. I have just come from a village that made the same talk and most of them are dead now. Since when has a Cheyenne warrior decided that to live as a slave is better than to die in battle? I do not know these words. I do not want to hear them. The reservation is death. It is much better to die quickly, in battle, than to rot away like the slaughtered buffalo carcasses on the prairie. I will make no peace with the soldiers.” He stood up and glanced at the circle of elders around the council fire. “I will go to my campfire now. If you decide to surrender to the soldiers, I will fight them by myself.”

  A few days later, a messenger came to the villages on the Red River. He brought word that a Colonel Holder was coming to the village. The people should know, the messenger said, that he was coming to talk, not to fight. Two days later, a troop of cavalry was sighted, approaching the village. At the head of the column, sitting ramrod straight in the saddle, his slate gray beard trimmed neatly to a point directly above the top button of his heavy blue coat, rode Colonel Lucien C. Holder.

  Stone Hand watched the approaching column with bitter interest. The soldiers were riding under a white flag. As he sat on his pony, watching from a small bluff by the river, he was tempted to send a rifle ball to meet the gray beard sitting so militarily rigid in the saddle. The only reason he resisted the urge was the havoc it would bring down upon the village. He did not trust the soldiers so he watched from a distance, his weapons about him, ready to make an instant escape if necessary. He fully intended to live beyond this day to kill many more white men.

  True to his word, Holder asked to talk with the chiefs. A pipe was smoked and then the Colonel told them that the great white father in Washington wanted his children to come to the reservation at Camp Supply. There they would be fed and cared for. There would be no need for the Cheyenne men to hunt. Beef cattle would be provided for them. He added that if the Cheyenne people did not come into the reservation, he would bring many soldiers to punish them.

  After much talk, One Elk told the colonel that his people would put themselves under the great white father’s care. They would go to Camp Supply.

  “Good,” Holder replied. “This is a wise thing you have decided.” He smiled at the chief as an uncle would smile at a child. “There are some conditions that must be satisfied before the white father will welcome his children. First, you must give up any white captives that are living with the Cheyenne.” One Elk nodded agreement. The colonel continued. “Secondly, you must turn over all firearms in your possession.” Again One Elk nodded. “And third, my scouts tell me that the renegade, Stone Hand, is in your village. You must turn this man over to me now.”

  One Elk shrugged. “I cannot do this. Stone Hand came to my village as a guest. It would not be right to do this.”

  “I want that son of a bitch and I mean now!” The colonel’s nostrils flared with his anger.

  “I cannot,” One Elk replied and turned to point toward a distant rise in the prairie.

  Colonel Holder turned to see a lone rider disappear over the rise, the feet of his pony kicking up small clouds of white dust.

  “Damn!” Holder spat.

  His adjutant, Captain Horace Sykes, leaped to his feet. “Shall I send a detail after him, Colonel?”

  Holder sighed. “No, Horace. It would be a waste of time. You’d never catch that son of a bitch with the lead he has. We’ll get him another day.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Sarah Holder emerged from the tent prepared for her just as a rider approached the camp. She watched, disinterested at first until the rider began to take on familiar characteristics. “Jason Coles,” she announced silently as she identified the easy way the man sat in his saddle. Man and horse seemed as one, rocking in rhythm as the horse picked its way over the uneven banks of the stream. Something about this rough-cut Indian scout fascinated Sarah, something she found difficult to explain. He was by no means a handsome man, at least not in the sense John Welch was. But there was a wild beauty about him, much like the striking beauty of the rugged mountain ranges to the west. Her father thought a lot of the man. That was obvious in the way he talked about his knowledge of the land and the Indians. She decided to find out more about this genuine Indian fighter. Her friends back in Baltimore would be fascinated to know men like Jason Coles really existed.

  Jason unsaddled Henry and turned him out with the army’s horses before reporting to Colonel Holder. The colonel was seated on a camp stool in front of his tent while an orderly trimmed his hair and whiskers.

  “Hello, Coles. I didn’t expect you back right away. Don’t tell me you caught our renegade already.”

  “Not likely,” Jason replied dryly. “I did cut his trail but he gave me the slip. He ain’t gonna be easy to catch.” He pulled up a stool and sat down opposite the colonel. “But I reckon that’s why you sent for me in the first place.”

  While the colonel’s orderly finished with his bar-bering, Jason recounted his actions of the previous two days and his discovery of the Commanche camp.

  “How many lodges did you say?”

  “I counted twenty-three,” Jason answered.

  “That would be Lame Dog’s band, I suppose. We had reports he’s been raiding along the Canadian River. He must have worked back in this area again. He’s probably figuring to pick up some of the Cheyenne from the reservation.”

  “Is this official business? Or can anyone join in?” Sarah Holder swept into their
discussion.

  Jason rose dutifully to his feet and nodded to the young lady. “Miss Holder,” he said.

  The colonel remained seated but his face was immediately transformed into that of a proud and doting father. “No, no, darling. Come on in. Mr. Coles and I were just having a little conversation about some hostiles he found.”

  She turned to face Jason and smiled warmly. “That sounds exciting. Were you in any danger, Mr. Coles?” She quickly added, “I suppose, being an Indian fighter, you are accustomed to living in danger.”

  Jason looked embarrassed. He looked at the young woman for a long minute before answering. He wasn’t quite sure how to take her question, whether the girl was teasing him or simply naive. He wasn’t sure he liked being called an Indian fighter at any rate. After searching Sarah’s eyes for a moment, he decided she was not being snide and his own expression softened as he explained. “No, ma’am. I don’t think I was in any danger. I just saw the camp and watched it for a while.”

  “Weren’t you afraid, though? I mean, what with all those savages, and you by yourself? I would think being an Indian fighter is a dangerous occupation.”

  Jason flushed, embarrassed by the openly childish remarks. “I’m not an Indian fighter. I mean, I’m not an anything fighter. I just do what I can for the army.” He glanced quickly at the colonel to rescue him, only to find her father enjoying his embarrassment.

  “My, how modest! But I see I’m embarrassing you. Perhaps I should have said army scout.” She turned abruptly to her father. “Is Mr. Coles going to join us for dinner?”

  Jason stammered, “Why, I don’t think so. I just came off the trail. I don’t reckon I’m fit to sup with a lady.”

  “Nonsense,” Colonel Holder interrupted. “Of course Mr. Coles will eat with us. I insist.”

  * * *

  As before, Jason was not the only guest to dine with the colonel and his daughter that evening. Captain Welch was also in attendance. Jason stood back and watched, amused, as the young doctor maneuvered to gain the chair next to Sarah. Jason, his clean shirt tucked neatly into his one pair of good trousers, settled into a chair beside the colonel. Captain Welch lost no time in enlisting Sarah in some light patter about the weather, whether or not she was enjoying her visit, and offering his services for whatever she might need. Jason and the colonel looked on with amusement as the young officer launched an obvious campaign to charm the colonel’s daughter.

  Colonel Holder, for his part, squandered not a second of concern, for he was confident his headstrong daughter had a mind of her own and could handle the likes of the young doctor. Sarah was not easily impressed by handsome young army officers. On the other hand, a girl could certainly do worse than marrying a career army officer, and a doctor at that. So he let the captain have free rein and directed most of his conversation toward Jason and the possibility of trouble from Lame Dog’s band of Commanches.

  During a lull in the conversation, Sarah interjected. “Father, Captain Welch has invited me to go on a picnic outside the camp. Is that all right?”

  Colonel Holder glanced up at the young surgeon and Captain Welch quickly explained. “Just down at the willows, sir, by the creek…if that’s all right with you, sir.”

  The willows he spoke of were a small stand of a half-dozen trees no more than five hundred yards from the colonel’s tent. Holder shrugged. “I don’t see any harm in that. I wouldn’t want you to go any further out of camp though.”

  After dinner, Jason and Colonel Holder walked outside to enjoy a drink of the colonel’s brandy and smoke a cigar. Captain Welch remained to entertain Sarah with his charm. It was after nine o’clock when Jason excused himself and retired to his blankets.

  * * *

  Shortly after sunup the following morning, Jason saddled Henry and rode out to the Cheyenne village on the reservation. He had learned from Colonel Holder that an old acquaintance of his, Sam Running Fox, was living with a Cheyenne woman on the reservation. Jason had worked with Sam two years before when Sam was a member of Colonel Forsyth’s Cheyenne Scouts. They were not close friends, merely acquaintances, but Jason felt there was a mutual respect between them that would ensure some honest information about the man, Stone Hand.

  Jason never felt comfortable visiting any Indian reservation. Call it conscience, or guilt felt for all the atrocities committed upon the red man by the whites. There was a pall, like the carcass of a dead spirit, that hung over every reservation he had ever been in. It was a sin what the U.S. government had done to these once proud and free people, breaking every promise they had made in their many treaties. He himself was not without blame. He rode with the army. He had killed Cheyenne, Kiowa, and Commanche. But he wasn’t proud of the fact. It was just the way the cards had been dealt.

  He felt the stares of the people as he rode slowly through the Cheyenne village. The lodges were laid out in a half circle around the agency building, a rough log affair that housed the agent and doubled as a warehouse for the provisions that were meant to sustain the people of the village.

  Jason didn’t like what he saw. To him, this camp displayed a village of broken spirits. The women and children stood by the lodges, watching him with eyes vacant with boredom. Some of the men were gathered in an idle group near the agency building. They appeared to be doing nothing more than passing time, perhaps remembering earlier times when they would be out hunting. There was no game to hunt in this sorry land. Jason felt a tension running through the entire camp. This was no way for a young Cheyenne brave to live. He wondered how long it would be before they simply exploded and broke out. It was bound to come. Sam Running Fox confirmed his intuitions.

  Jason pulled Henry up before a lodge decorated with paintings of buffalo running before a band of hunters. A short, barrel-chested man emerged from the entrance flap. He was wearing a breechcloth and leggings. He wore no shirt, a necklace of bear claws the only adornment of his upper body.

  “Jason Coles,” he said matter-of-factly. “What the hell you doin’ here?”

  “Howdy, Sam.” Jason stepped down.

  “I ain’t seen you since I don’t know when. You still working for the army?”

  “I wasn’t for a while, but I reckon I am now.” The two men shook hands. “Colonel Holder said you were living out here with a Cheyenne woman. You must be getting soft, living on a reservation.”

  Sam smiled. “I reckon I got a craving for a good woman to cook for me and keep me warm at night.”

  “I never figured you for reservation life. I thought you’d be more likely to hightail it for the mountains.”

  Sam’s face took on a serious expression. “I’ll tell you what’s the truth, Jason. If I was a little younger, I’d of done been gone. This place is a dead place.” He gestured toward the group of men talking behind the agency building. “I’ll guarantee you them young men are talking right now about whether or not it would be a good idea to leave this place. They done found out there’s no steel in a white man’s word. I swear, if I was younger, I’d go. I’d rather die from a bullet than waste away like I’m doing here. I might go yet.” His eyes hardened. “I just might do it, Jason.” There was a long, awkward silence, then Sam’s fierce expression relaxed and he asked, “Anyway, what brings you here?”

  “I’m needing some information. What can you tell me about a renegade buck named Stone Hand?”

  Sam grunted involuntarily, “Huh.” A wry smile creased his face. “Stone Hand…so the army’s got desperate enough to call you in to try to catch Stone Hand. I ain’t surprised. Well, Jason, I’ll tell you this. It ain’t gonna be easy. This ain’t no ordinary reservation buck you’re chasing. Stone Hand is big medicine and, if you don’t watch your hind end, he’ll be chasing you.”

  Jason grunted. “If he’s as bad as everybody says, I might just better run off somewhere and hide.”

  Sam laughed. “It would be the smart thing to do, I swear.” Then his face went dead serious and he looked Jason straight in the eye. “Jason, you
better watch your back for sure. This buck is bad. He’s got all the other men of the tribe spooked. Some says he ain’t even human. I don’t know about that but I do know he’s big medicine and the only thing he cares about is killing.”

  Jason’s face creased with a faint smile. “I swear, Sam, you sound like you really believe all that. I expect he’s one smart Injun, but I reckon he’s human enough.”

  “Dammit, I’m just warning you, that’s all.” Sam was becoming impatient with Jason’s lack of concern. “He talks with the spirits and they tell him things.” Sam looked around anxiously as if he might be overheard. “He comes and goes on the wind. I mean, he won’t be nowhere around and then you turn around and he’ll be standing behind you. I’m telling you, Jason, he’s powerful medicine and you better watch your backside, especially if he finds out you’re chasing him.”

  “I will, Sam. I appreciate the warning.” Jason wasn’t ready to accept the idea that he was chasing a ghost but he could see that Sam was dead serious. But then Sam was half Cheyenne, so he was thinking with his Indian half. “I was hoping you could tell me a little bit more about him so I can recognize him if I cut his trail. I need to know what he looks like.”

  Sam, his face still a mask of concern, replied, “You’ll know him. I guarantee it. If you see Stone Hand, you’ll know it’s him. If you ain’t sure, he’s got a scar running across his left cheek where a bullet grazed him.”

  Jason was beginning to lose patience with Sam’s obvious reverence for this one Cheyenne warrior. “You wouldn’t know where he might likely be, would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Sam replied smugly. “But he was here last night.”