There Once Were Wolves, Part 12

"The whole world is coming,
A nation is coming, a nation is coming,
The Eagle has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so.

Over the whole earth they are coming.
The buffalo are coming, the buffalo are coming,
The Crow has brought the message to the tribe.
The father says so, the father says so."

Ghost Dance song of the Lakota Sioux, Wounded Knee






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The shots had echoed up the valley walls and had awoken Black Knife. He stared down at the fires and gun flashes of the encampment, wondering what was going on. At first, he surmised that they were under attack, but didn't see any indications of the attackers. Then he remembered the shadow ones that watched him now, and shuddered. The whites must be shooting at their own haunts, perhaps this was a valley for them. He mused on that a minute as the shooting continued below. This may be a valley of the dead ones he had been drawn to.

He wrapped his blanket about him tighter and tried to remember his daughter's face....

But it had begun to fade.

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The rifles echoed up through the narrow draw and into the box canyon where Mousehunter and the women had set up their wintering camp. Blue Hawk had shaken his shoulder to alert him of the sounds, but he was already wide-eyed and listening. What were they shooting at? he wondered. But she curled a hand protectively around her belly and stared out into the winter night.

"They are letting us know they are coming...." she whispered, "They are telling us we will run no more tomorrow."

Mousehunter nodded to himself at her words and got up from the blankets. He reached for the rifles and began preparing for the dawn.


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Randall vaulted onto the back of the riding-mule, who brayed in protest at being ridden bare-back.

"None'a yer guff, Jimmy-Jim or I'll whomp you with a knotted plow-line!" the hunter growled back. He had not bothered to stick around when the Captain came out of the tent, he had already heard him screaming for the sentries, screaming for Randall to be arrested. "Shoot that man!" he had screamed towards Randall's departing back as confused troopers looked around for whichever Indian the Captain must have been talking about. Randall hefted his Sharps, riding with one hand wrapped in the mule's rope bit and jogged away as fast as the little animal could go. He pelted on towards the upper end of the valley, assured by his mount's trusty sense of direction and sure feet. He was hoping to find a route that could be handled by the mule, one that would be difficult for the horses. This wasn't the first time he had left a losing cause behind him, but doubt still nagged at him. He still wondered if there were something meant for him in this damn dirty little war.


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Mantrell had every tent turned out, he had every spot in the camp searched, and the drunkard's mule was gone. The traitorous little ne'er-do-well had fled in the night just like his little heathen friend. Mantrell blazed about the camp like a firestorm, rallying confused and frightened men up to follow the escaped muleskinner. Worthington tried to talk to him, but all was to no avail.

"Captain,... sir, there's no use in chasing anyone in the dark. Besides, it was a mistake.... He was just trying to help..." Worthington began, attempting to make the Captain see reason, as he chased after him.

"Help?" The deadly quiet answer over the Captain's shoulder chilled the young man. "He attacked me in my tent, boy..."

"You had attacked me when I came in, sir..." Worthington had dropped his voice so that only the Captain could hear. "Undoubtedly thinking me a hostile in the darkness...." His voice trailed off doubtfully. "But sir, Randall just tried to stop you from injuring me. It was easy to get confused, sir. In the darkness, Randall actually mistook you for... for a wolf."

Mantrell stood stiffly, stopping in his tracks. Worthington stumbled trying not to bump into him. The tall man turned and stared vacantly down into Worthington's eyes.

"Wolf?"

Worthington nodded eagerly, "Yes, sir. A wolf. It was all very confus..."

"A WOLF?" Mantrell asked again, this time his eyes became searching, mesmerizing as they rooted Worthington to the ground. The young man wished he could run before the stare, but something in him made him stand to. The feeling that had touched him as he put order to the earlier frenzy was still there. But Mantrell was on some other level of command, now.

"He's part of it, then. I knew it, he's part of it all."

"Sir?"

"Randall you call him now? On good terms with the man are you? Perhaps you could convince him to turn himself in, yes?"

"For... for what sir?"

"Desertion for starters, assault of an officer, he should answer for these things, don't you think? Even if they were, as you claim, a ... misunderstanding." The calmness that flowed through Mantrell's words began to set the nervous Lieutenant at ease again. At that moment, the skinny private raced up to report. "No sign of the bastid, sir, he's run like a henhouse cur!"

A gloved hand held up an accusatory finger into the youth's face. "You will watch your language around me, Private!"

The kid stood straight at attention, "Yes, sir, sorry, sir!"

Mantrell noticed that the kid seemed to be favoring his right foot.

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Sixteen shells, knotted up in a handkerchief in his pocket; they made a heavy lump of brass and powder and lead. Sixteen stubby, .50-70 caliber, two-inch long, squat shots betwixt him and starvation or the first attack he might run into. He had to leave fast and he couldn't grab his pack when he clambered aboard his mule and lit out into the darkness. So Randall numbered his meager resources: Skinning knife, pouch of jerked elk meat (almost gone), his cased rifle, a box of matches and sixteen shells. Good enough, he thought stubbornly, and bent over the mule's neck and rode on up the stream and into the canyon.


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Mousehunter heard the clopping of the hooves and readied himself. The newcomer was still a ways down the canyon and invisible in the dark, but his mount's footsteps were enough to pinpoint his location. He gripped the heavy Trapdoor Springfield Rifle he had taken from the guard when he escaped, the single stubby shell rested in it, waiting. The pouch of ammunition and his hands were what stood between the two women and death. The future of the People, if there was to be one, lay within them. Barely more than a boy, Mousehunter felt nothing but fear, but he kept his place and watched the darkness. He was afraid more of failure than of death. But in the darkness, he had to let himself know that he mattered. At that thought, he laid back his head and began the long mournful howl that might prove his death song.


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Black Knife heard the howl from below as he held his long vigil on the ridge. He knew know that he had walked into a valley of ghosts and that he was meant to come here. He had surrendered himself to the inevitable. The dark ones from the edge of the light were not merely watching... they were spirit guides, whether he wanted them or no. This was the way things were meant to be. He noted the barest lightening of the shadowy sky and saw a faint trace of dark grey to the east. This was his last day. Standing from his spot in the rock-cave, he began to slowly pick his way across the red rock and white snow, heading back down into the dark canyon.

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Horses pricked their ears up and whickered at the mournful predatory sound. Mantrell jabbed his spurs in to end any hesitation on his mount's behalf and drove it farther onward. The men followed in a slow staggered line, like insolent and disobedient children, he thought. Here he was forcing them and urging them on to do the right thing, and they dragged like mongrel-whelps on a bear's trail. But they would not look him in the eye with insolence now, as they had before. They began to look at him with some trepidation and worry as well as sullen resentment. Fine, let them hate, so long as they fear. His horse began to slow down again as they picked their way through the loose stone of the first canyon-narrows. Another impatient jab of the steels and it squealed and jogged on faster again.

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Randall looked up at the indignant bray of the saddle-mule, and reached to the sling of his rifle's case on his shoulder. But no shape could he discern in the darkness. Several pinion pines had slid down the slope up the canyon wall, having dropped some long time before from the cliffs above. The rubble of the collapsed cliff ledge formed a small wall around them there, with the grey trunks laying sideways, dead roots reaching into the unwelcoming air. It made a nice shooter's nest. The thought occurred to Randall that he might want to check it out. As he slid off the back of the mule, he saw a flash of grey moving among the fallen trunks. Ducking swiftly behind the form of Jimmy-Jim, he slid his Sharps out of his scabbard and uncovered the sights from the wrap of buckskin tied around them. The full-length brass telescope ran along the top of the barrel and it gave the extra advantage of gathering what little light there was, making his aim just a trifle lighter shade of grey. Through the glass lens, Randall focused on the spot where something had moved, but no man crouched there. Instead, he saw the furred form of a grey wolf, it's ears pricked forward and looking dead straight back at him.

Something cold ran across the back of Randall's back and he shivered, causing the image to dance in the scope. He remembered the image he had seen in the officer's tent. Something caused him to look up from the scope again, and there was the shadowy form of a blanket-wrapped man. He tilted his neck to the side and saw the magnified image of a wolf. It was one of them.

Slowly, Randall lowered his rifle. Slowly, he stepped out from the cover of the churlish animal. Slowly he reached over and propped the rifle up against a nearby boulder, taking care to keep his rifle's muzzle from poking into the snow. He stood there, wrapped in woolly brown robes, in plain sight and waited.




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