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  RED TOMAHAWK

  BY JORY SHERMAN

  Red Tomahawk

  Smashwords Edition

  A Western Fictioneers Book published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 1984 by Jory Sherman

  The Western Fictioneers Library

  www.westernfictioneers.com

  Cover Design L. J. Washburn

  Cover Image Shutterstock_70327045

  Western Fictioneers logo design by Jennifer Smith-Mayo

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Keith, Kay, and Sunny Lynn. In memory of Keith Edward Sherman, our father, who first told me of his friend, Red Tomahawk, Lakota brave, so long long ago. . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  Naked bodies floated on the Musselshell.

  Blind Mole turned slowly on his stomach. His russet back glistened in the sun as the water sleeked his skin. He dove, like a hunting mink, disappeared into the depths of the flowing river.

  Banded Eagle, his eyes half-closed, floating, dozing, gave a high shriek as hands grasped his buttocks. He flailed the water with frantic hands, splashed water into his open mouth. He spluttered, choked. The other boys saw him flap his arms like some defeathered bird and laughed.

  Blind Mole surfaced, a grin on his face, a few feet from Banded Eagle. The young Lakota slicked his dark hair down flat, shook his braids.

  "Banded Eagle screams like a girl," laughed Little Wolverine.

  "Like my sister," giggled Chalk Face, a boy who had been scalded when he was a baby. His facial skin had grown back faded, almost colorless so that he appeared to be wearing a mask or to have been painted for war.

  "Got you," said Blind Mole. "Scared you out of your wits, Banded Eagle."

  The object of the boyhood prank shook his fist at Blind Mole.

  "You will be sorry before the day is over," he promised.

  The other boys laughed and swam in taunting circles around the embarrassed brave.

  All except one, who basked, aloof from the others, in the shallow eddies next to the bank.

  The one they called Curly, of the Tashunka Witko, Crazy Horse, lodge did not join in the laughter, but his eyes sparkled with merriment. When Blind Mole looked over at him, he nodded his approval and a faint trace of a smile flickered on his lips.

  These were Oglala boys and they all bore the scars of the sundance on their chests. This was a warm day and they had come to the river on foot, wearing only breechclouts, carrying bows and arrows in case they jumped rabbit or other game.

  "Hou!" called Blind Mole to Banded Eagle. "Catch me if you can, boy."

  Blind Mole whacked his hand flat on the water, splashing Banded Eagle with a drenching spray. Then, he dove, swimming downstream like an otter.

  Banded Eagle dove after him and the other boys shouted, taunting him, urging him on as if his manhood was at stake.

  Curly, hearing a sound that none of the others heard, turned on his side, looked up the bank where their weapons and breechclouts lay scattered over the earth and stones.

  Everything appeared to be normal. Still, he had heard something. Now, he looked intently. He saw the short grasses move, in one spot, most peculiarly. A breechclout slid away from him as if dragged by an unseen gopher. Curly drew his knees up under him, sat in a crouching position. He craned to see what animal was dragging away the piece of hide.

  Behind him, Banded Eagle thrashed the water again as Blind Mole grabbed one of his legs beneath the surface. The other boys, oblivious to Curly's interest, yelled in chorus as Blind Mole swam between Banded Eagle's legs and then shot to the surface. Banded Eagle struck out blindly, but was upended as Blind Mole suddenly backed out from under him with powerful scissor-kicks of his legs.

  "Aiieeee!" shrieked Banded Eagle just before he crashed in the water.

  Blind Mole stood up, roared with laughter.

  Then, his expression froze on his face as he saw brown-skinned boys grab up all the breechclouts and run off with them.

  Curly saw the boys at the same time, but he was closer than Blind Mole. His scalp prickled as he saw that they were Crow, enemies of the Lakota tribes. Without thinking of his own safety, he started to clamber up the bank. He slipped and fell down on the slippery slope, slid backwards.

  Blind Mole saw this, too.

  He shouted.

  "Somebody's stealing our things!"

  The other boys saw the expression on his face and turned, but by this time, the Crow boys had disappeared.

  "I don't see anyone," said Chalk Face.

  "Crow," hissed Curly, and the word sent shivers up the spines of the Oglala youths in the river.

  "Crow?" questioned Blind Mole.

  Curly scrambled up the bank, crablike just as the first arrow arced over the bank, shissed through the air, plunked into the water.

  Blind Mole dove for it, snatched it from the water. He held it up, so that all could see the markings.

  "Crow! Hou!" he shouted. "Hiyapo!"

  "Yes, let's go!" yelled Lame Squirrel. "Let's get the Crow thieves!"

  Curly ducked an arrow, crawled up the slope as the water churned behind him. The boys in the river splashed onto the bank, yelling at the tops of their lungs. A shower of arrows whistled overhead.

  "Curly! Can you see them?"

  "They are hiding," said the pale-skinned youth with the curly hair. "But I hear them."

  "We are coming!" shouted Blind Mole, leading the pack. "Let's go!" he urged his companions.

  Now, the Crows started yelling the war cries they had heard from their elders. Their high-pitched voices sounded eerily like a pack of coyotes floating through the air.

  Curly reached the place where they had stored their weapons first. He gave a cry of dismay as he saw that most of the bows had been unstrung, the arrows scattered. Quickly, he snatched up a bow, began looking for the gut-string. The other boys raced up, then, began shouting angrily. Arrows, shot from the bows of the Crow hissed through the air. Chalk Face narrowly missed being struck by an arrow that landed between his legs. He grabbed it up, saw that it bore his own private markings. He screamed in rage and turned to face the young Absaroka braves. He shook the fist that clutched the arrow and lifted his genitals with his other hand in a sign of contempt.

  Little Wolverine managed to string his bow, nock an arrow. Curly found a gut string, quickly strung his bow.

  Blind Mole found his tomahawk under the rock where he had left it. He whooped in triumph.

  "Let's strike coup!" he shouted.

  "Yes, yes!" assented the other young braves.

  Some of the boys picked up sharp stones. Curly and Little Wolverine grabbed quivers and ran to catch up with Blind Mole, who led the pack.

  The Crows saw the Lakota coming and started talking in excited voices. Those who had stolen the breechclouts waved them tauntingly at the Oglala braves. One of them shot an arrow at Blind Mole. It bounced off the flint of his tomahawk. The Lakota thought this was a sign of good medicine. The Crows were dismayed and began to scatter. Most of them were running short of arrows and tried to borrow some from those who still had more than two apiece.

  One of the bigger Crow braves said something to his companions and they stopped arguing among themselves. Those who had them, threw down the stolen breechclouts that t
hey had been waving and began to form a line of resistance. Excitedly, they began to shoot their arrows at the charging Lakota.

  Little Wolverine cried out as a Crow arrow struck him in the hip. His leg went out from under him. He went down, skidding through bunch grass and stones that scraped blood from his legs.

  Obscenities were yelled back and forth.

  Curly shot a Crow in the foot, who screamed and hopped around in pain.

  Blind Mole dashed into the mass of Crows, swinging his tomahawk wildly, striking coup so fast no one could stop him. He struck an arm, a shoulder, a back. The Crow braves danced away from him. Curly and Chalk Face grappled with a Crow, snatched his bow from him. He escaped.

  The tallest of the Crow did not run, but drew his bow, aimed his arrow at Blind Mole.

  "Look out!" warned Banded Eagle.

  Blind Mole, his face contorted in rage, saw the tall brave drawing down on him. He gave a wild yell and charged, the tomahawk poised over his head to strike.

  The tall Crow began to shake with fear. He seemed unable to release the arrow. By the time his fingers relaxed and fell away from the nock, Blind Mole was upon him. The arrow sped harmlessly past the Lakota youth's ear.

  Blind Mole hammered the tomahawk down, in a slicing arc.

  The Lakota braves and the Crow watched in horrified fascination as the tomahawk slashed into the top of the tall one's skull with a sickening crunch. Blood burst from the wound. The Crow's eyes rolled in their sockets and his knees gave way. Fluids burst from his sundered brain.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Blind Mole gave a chilling shout of victory and jerked the embedded 'hawk from the Crow's crushed skull. The weapon emerged dripping with blood red as pte-berry.

  The Lakota began striking coup on the hapless Crow, who soon began to run. In full rout, they cried out for mercy. Curly and the others chased them until they ran out of breath and their sides ached.

  Blind Mole looked down at the slain Crow.

  He drew in a deep breath, savoring his first kill.

  "You took many coups," said Banded Eagle, standing nearby.

  "Yes."

  "You are brave. Hou!"

  Little Wolverine came limping up. He was smiling, pointing to his wound. He had torn the flint arrowhead out of his hip and there was some bleeding. He beat his chest.

  "We showed those Crow," he said. "I am glad you killed that tall one. You must get a knife and take his hair for your lodge."

  Curly and the others came back. He walked up to Blind Mole, stuck a finger in his chest. The others began to pick up the spoils, the dropped bows and arrows, fighting over them like pups over a buffalo bone.

  "You must have a new name, Blind Mole," said Curly. "You have earned much honor this day."

  "Yes, yes, a new name," shouted the others. "What will your new name be?"

  Blind Mole held up the bloody tomahawk.

  Curly nodded.

  "I will call you Red Tomahawk," he said. "You will be my friend."

  "Red Tomahawk?"

  "It is a good name for a strong and fearless brave."

  The others assented vigorously and Banded Eagle handed Blind Mole a knife dropped by one of the Crows.

  Quickly, Blind Mole cut the scalplock from the dead brave. He held it proudly aloft.

  "Red Tomahawk is a warrior," said Banded Eagle.

  The name rang in Blind Mole's ears.

  It was a good name.

  It was good to have Curly for a friend.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Curly had already gotten his new name, but people still called him by the old one. He was the son of Crazy Horse, the Oglala holy man, and after he had killed his buffalo, mounted a fresh-caught wild horse up in the sandhills, his father threw away his old name and called him His Horse Looking.

  The events that led to Blind Mole becoming known as Red Tomahawk happened in the late spring of the white man's year, 1854, when Curly and Red Tomahawk had but a dozen summers each. The Oglala boasted of Red Tomahawk's achievement, his bravery, all the time during the trek south to the land above the Shell River, what the white eyes called the North Platte, where they summered with other clans of the Dakotah nation, the Brules and the visiting Minneconjous from the north. There was plenty of buffalo that summer and the grass was high along the emigrant road.

  The camp lay on the Shell, below the soldiers' fort they called Laramie. The Lakota did not pay much attention to the soldiers, because there were only a few of them in a land two thousand miles wide that belonged to the Lakota. In fact, the site of the fort used to be an Indian town, where white traders, who had married Lakota women, once lived. Now, on the broken plain around the fort, one could see soldiers, riding back and forth. There were traders' huts, trappers' diggings among the Dakotah lodges. Indians, at one time, before the Big Council in the white man's year of 1851, came and went from the fort as much as they liked. No white man spoke against them about where they camped or hunted, or with what other Indian tribes they fought. But now, things were different, and there was an uneasy peace between the whites and the Indians.

  The fort was on the Holy Road. At first there had been only a trickle of whites, and these had gradually grown in number. The Indian welcomed them, at first, smoked with some of them, watched their village grow. Many whites now passed through, all going in the same direction. The Indians wondered where they went and why they never came back. But it was not of much importance to them until late that summer, in August, when Curly witnessed the shooting of Conquering Bear by the blue coats with their silver swords and fireshooting sticks.

  Two years before, some of the younger Lakota wanted to make war against the whites. These were wild, disgruntled youths who often made the whites give them free goods, anything from tobacco to coffee, sugar and whiskey. If the travelers did not give free goods, these loaf-abouts would steal a mule or cow for satisfaction and revenge. But the soldiers bought the Indian trading post town on the Shell and made their fort there. The young men got angry and brought their fiery words to the council fires. One young Minneconjou, who was known to be a great warrior, almost fanned the flames of war with his strong words.

  "These soldiers," he said, "who have come into our country with the wagon guns are not many. They are really only a small number, a puff of the breath in the middle of the dark cloud of warriors who are our people."

  The hot bloods shouted "Hou, Hou," and spoke of gathering up the arrows and sharpening the knives for battle. But, before the wild ones could carry the pipe to the other tribes, the whites made the Big Council on Horse Creek. The soldiers brought in wagons full of presents and they made the boards dance with music so that the people laughed and had fun. They promised, that if the chiefs made scratches on the white man's paper that they would come with more presents every summer.

  Some of the young bloods of the Oglala and Minneconjou had exchanged rifle fire with soldiers and were envied by many of the young men who had not yet counted coup. These warriors often stole out of camp after dark so that the old chiefs could honestly say that they "had not seen any of their bucks leave camp," when the Indian agent or the soldier father came to ask about this and that, a stolen horse or cow, some shooting at the fort.

  Conquering Bear, of the Brule, was made a chief by the whites. The Lakota laughed at him, because he was only one of those who made trade with the white men and did not have any authority in any of the tribes. The Great Father in Washington had said he wanted a chief over all the peoples of the Lakota, but in council, none of the chiefs could pass the stick to one more than another, so they did not come to agreement. The soldier chief Mitchell finally said that he would make the chief who would be over all the Dakotah peoples and it would be Conquering Bear of the Brule.

  Since noon, the thunders had been building in long, oblate dark clouds that seemed caught on the far crown of Laramie Peak. Now, in the sticky, close evening, some of the boys of the Oglalas lay on the warm sandy knoll along the emigrant t
rail where the smoke from the smudge pots blew over their naked backs, keeping the mosquitoes away. Red Tomahawk and Curly were there, with He Dog and Lone Bear, Chalk Face and Banded Eagle.

  All day long, Curly had been waiting for High Back Bone, the one they called "Hump" for short, but he had not yet come. Curly had news for him, and for all of them, since he had been in the Brule camp the day before. Curly had lived with the Oglalas, but his mother was Brule. She, the sister of Spotted Tail, had died. His second mother was also Spotted Tail's sister, for this was the custom among the Lakotas. Yesterday, when Curly was visiting his relations in the Brule camp, he had been given a piece of hide from the Mormon cow that Straight Topknot, a Minneconjou had killed. Now, there was trouble, and Curly had heard much about it that he was anxious to tell.

  The thunders made silver flashes in the dark sky over the mountains and the light streaked the bare backs of the lolling boys, etched their faces for a split second so that they looked like spirits flickering in and out of the darkness.

  Of course, the talk was all of the visitors down in the Brule camp, the Minneconjou from the north, the Bear people. Everyone had heard of the killing of the Mormon cow, but no one wanted to talk about it. There was such shame in knowing that the soldiers made Conquering Bear do white man things. Straight Topknot should be punished by his people, not by white soldiers. It was a bad thing. The Minneconjou was a guest and should not have to be humiliated so because of a white man's custom.

  "Someday," said He Dog, "we will all be doing great things."

  "Yes," said Lone Bear. "We will steal Pawnee horses, count coups on the Crow and Snake."

  "Hou-ye," cried Red Tomahawk. "They will sing of us in the villages like they do Red Cloud."

  "And Pawnee Killer."

  "Black Twin!"

  "And Hump," said Curly quietly.

  "Yes, Hump," agreed Red Tomahawk. "He is the best among us."

  "The old women will shout out our names as we ride into camp," said He Dog dreamily, "and can you see all the girls lining up to see us, looking down at their moccasins as shy as baby quail."