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  As his father had been.

  She remembered his face when he had told her that he was leaving and she had been sad but had understood. Even when they had lain together under one blanket, after he had brought her father five ponies, even then she had known that he would not stay where the white man told him.

  And she had not minded.

  She had part of him still. Light-of-the-Stars winced and then smiled as she felt the child kick inside her womb. Let it be a son, she thought, and let him be born at night. Just as I was when my father called me by my name for the first time. Let him be a son and let…

  Suddenly the pony stumbled awkwardly beneath her and the length of rope slipped from her hand. She cried out and slid sideways, trying desperately to grasp the pony’s neck and prevent herself from falling. Her fingers slid through the coarse hair of his neck and the next second she struck the ground heavily.

  The pony behind veered to one side, dragging the travois round in an arc. Light-of-the-Stars lifted her arm and the travois pole banged into her, knocking her on to her back.

  ‘What the Hell’s goin’ on there?’

  Sergeant Lattimer forced his mount through the straggle of Sioux at the rear of the line, scattering them on either side. He reined in hard, alongside the fallen body of the squaw, making the horse rear up on its hind legs.

  Light-of-the-Stars opened her eyes and saw the hoofs lifted above her. She screamed and clutched her belly and with a surge of pain blackness closed in upon her.

  Lattimer jumped from his saddle and stepped towards the girl. One of the young Sioux braves saw his movement and thought he intended to attack her. With a high-pitched shout he ran at the Sergeant, arms raised above his head. Lattimer saw him coming, stopped, fumbled with the fastening of his holster. Before he could free his pistol the Indian had hurled himself forward and the two of them went crashing to the ground.

  The rest of the Sioux had moved around the incident in a rough circle, making it hard for the cavalry to see what was happening or to get through.

  Lattimer punched out at the Indian and rolled over on top of him, his right knee jabbing down on to the brave’s upper arm and grinding into the muscle. He hit the Indian twice in the face with his fist and then sprang up, freeing his gun as he did so.

  ‘No!’

  Morning Cloud’s voice was louder than his ageing frame suggested possible, the authority clear.

  Sergeant Lattimer hesitated, his finger inside the trigger guard.

  Outside the circle the Lieutenant’s voice could be heard demanding explanations.

  Morning Cloud stepped between the Sergeant and the stunned brave. From the lined dark face, the eyes blazed strong and fierce; the beads on his buckskin shirt caught the fading rays of the sun and flickered.

  Still breathing heavily, Lattimer stared at the old Indian and spat out of the corner of his mouth. But he put up his gun and pushed it back into his holster with obvious regret.

  ‘Move aside there!’ came the Lieutenant’s voice. ‘Clear a way through! Fire over their heads!’

  Behind Morning Cloud, the brave stood up and slid away in amongst the rest.

  ‘Get her up!’ shouted Lattimer, pointing at the girl who still lay on the ground. ‘She’s holdin’ us up.’

  Morning Cloud motioned to two of the women and they went to the girl’s side.

  ‘What’s going on here, Sergeant?’ asked Lieutenant Patten, looking down from his horse.

  Lattimer pointed. ‘The woman fell from her pony. She’ll have to be carried. Sir.’

  ‘Right. See that it’s done quickly.’

  Lattimer stood there while the women laid the pregnant girl on one of the travois, moving things aside to make room for her. Light-of-the-Stars was barely conscious and she lay back, frightened and uncertain. Scared for her child more than for herself. Terrified lest the fall had damaged it. Wanting it to be perfect. Perfect as she remembered its father.

  She pressed her hands to herself, concentrating, waiting to feel the child kick. Praying that it should.

  ~*~

  Lattimer was sitting with Corporal Clarke and three of the other men. They had made camp for the night and several small fires were burning. Lattimer sat with his back resting against a tree, enjoying a pipe of tobacco. He was in the middle of one of his stories about the time he’d passed down on the Mexican border when Herne walked slowly towards him.

  The Sergeant saw Herne right enough, but chose to ignore him, carrying on with his tale. Herne came up close and stood there, waiting. When the laughter had fallen away, Lattimer looked up.

  ‘Somethin’ troublin’ you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Only this here part of the camp’s for white folks—yours is over there with the rest of the Injuns.’

  One of the men sniggered; the Corporal glanced up at Herne apprehensively. Lattimer smirked, goading Herne on.

  ‘Maybe you’d best get back there. We’re kind of choosy ’bout the company we keep. Ain’t we fellers?’

  Herne let his right hand drift closer to his Colt

  ‘When you finished rushing off at the mouth,’ said Herne with cold anger, ‘I got things to say.’

  ‘Then make it fast!’ Lattimer snapped back.

  ‘Soon as my back was turned this afternoon you got into a fight with one of the Sioux. An’ that ain’t all. Your horse near stomped a young girl that’s like to deliver up her child any time.’

  Lattimer leered up at him: ‘I hear you. What the Hell business is it of yours? If you’d have been here doin’ your job I wouldn’t have had to do it for you.’

  ‘I was doin’ my job.’

  ‘An’ so was I!’

  Lattimer set the pipe on the ground; Herne took another pace forward.

  ‘You give me a warnin’ earlier. Now I’ll give you one. Next time that temper of yours gets best of you an’ you start trouble with any of these Indians it’s me you’ll be dealin’ with. You’ll find that tougher than the women you make a habit of throwin’ your weight at.’

  Lattimer sneered: ‘You had your say? Get out of here and leave us whites be!’

  Herne touched the butt of his Colt with his fingers and moved them away as quickly. Not yet. Not now. He wasn’t worth it. If he was going to make the play himself, well, let him.

  ‘Long as I’m understood.’

  He turned away and started to walk back to where he had set out his bed roll. He hadn’t got more than five paces when he heard a sudden noise behind him and whirled round.

  He hadn’t reckoned the big Sergeant to be capable of moving so fast.

  The man’s lunging body seemed to fill his vision and as he swung up his left arm to fend off the attack something sharp and hot as fire burned through it. The weight of the Sergeant’s body carried him on, driving Herne backwards, legs buckling beneath him.

  He saw the knife in the Sergeant’s right hand rise and begin to fall a second time. Swiftly Herne threw his body sideways, passing underneath the slash of the blade so close that he felt the wind of its strike.

  Instantly Herne changed direction, lashing upwards with his right arm and catching Lattimer beneath the shoulder. The Sergeant grunted and gave ground. Herne swiveled and threw a hasty punch which Lattimer ducked away from, bringing up his knee at the same time.

  Herne shouted out involuntarily as the blow landed hard in his groin.

  For a second he was blinded and it was then that Lattimer plunged the knife towards his chest. Instinct alone made Herne throw himself backwards. The point of the knife ripped through the front of his shirt, tracing a thin line of red along his chest.

  Hands flat on the ground, Herne rocked back and kicked high. The toe of his boot caught Lattimer’s right arm just below the elbow and there was a sharp crack of bone. The Sergeant’s fingers parted and the knife fell away.

  Herne pushed himself up, going head first into the Sergeant’s midriff, sending him staggering backwards, winding him. Lattimer thumped into the trunk of
the tree and his arms spread-eagled outwards. Herne jammed his wounded left arm tight against the soldier’s throat and his right hand darted towards his boot.

  When it came back up the honed bayonet was tight within its grasp.

  Herne rested the point between Lattimer’s eyes.

  The Sergeant’s expression showed his fear clearly; as Herne exerted pressure on the bayonet blade the eyes widened than narrowed; bubbles of blood appeared on the surface of his skin and burst, trickling down the bridge of his nose.

  To both right and left Herne heard the distinct sound of carbines being levered.

  He eased the bayonet blade away.

  Lattimer stared at him, uncertain.

  Herne stepped back and pushed the bayonet back down into his boot. He left Lattimer where he was and walked away, past the raised Spencers, past the incredulous eyes of the Lieutenant, past the watching Sioux.

  He knew he should have killed the man then: he would only have to kill him later.

  Chapter Four

  Running Deer had been born in the year that the white man called eighteen hundred and sixty seven. He had been nine years old when his people wiped out the soldiers of Long Hair by the Greasy Grass River. That the white man spoke of as the Little Bighorn.

  As a child he had known the excitement, heard the stories of the brave victory. He had seen the mighty war chief, Crazy Horse, as he rode back in triumph.

  The drums of celebration and thanksgiving had beaten long into the night.

  Since Running Deer had grown towards manhood there had been nothing to celebrate; no victories to feast, to recount in stories and song. When he had been nine years old he had been proud to be of the Oglala Sioux: now he was proud no longer.

  He knew that a few of the young men of the tribe had broken from the reservation before the snows had melted from the hills. They had stolen ponies and ridden towards the north, towards the Badlands. Crooked Snake was one of them. He who had lain with Light-of-the-Stars under one blanket and whose child she now carried within her. Light-of-the-Stars was no older than himself. He had hoped, one day, to take ponies to her father and claim her. Many ponies, for she was beautiful.

  But it was not to be.

  Crooked Snake had taken her first and now he was no longer with her.

  Light-of-the-Stars had left the reservation also, riding with Morning Cloud.

  Not Running Deer. He had not gone with Crooked Snake and the other braves had thought him afraid. He had not gone with Morning Cloud and they had thought him even more afraid.

  He was not afraid.

  No.

  Running Deer sat cross-legged on the ledge. It had taken him two days and nights to reach the mountain. He had run, slowly, always heading towards the setting sun, the mountain growing in his sight.

  He had climbed high, almost to the highest crest, and taken his place. From there he could follow with his eyes the path of the sun, relentlessly, across the bright blue of the sky.

  He was close to it, close enough to call it down.

  Running Deer had not eaten since leaving the reservation; he knew that food would make his body impure during this time. He had drunk but little. In order to keep himself awake he had placed sharp stones between his toes and hard pebbles beneath his legs and buttocks. On the ground beside his right knee lay a bundle of sharp, thorned twigs tied together with a thin strip of hide. At intervals Running Deer lashed his body, drawing blood to the surface of his arms and chest, his legs and side. The marks were etched across his dark skin like some strange writing and Running Deer looked at it from time to time seeking for meaning.

  But mostly he looked into the sun.

  Stared into the raging heat of the ball of fire above him in the heavens.

  His parched lips moved over and over but as yet no words would come; no pictures passed across his mind.

  The sun’s rays burned his body, making the wounds on his flesh smart and sting.

  His body swayed from side to side.

  His head began to droop.

  No!

  He squeezed his toes together, forcing the sharp edges of stone through the already gouged skin.

  Running Deer returned his eyes to the sun.

  His eyes burned.

  His head spun.

  Still staring at the sun, Running Deer’s eyelids fell shut and a golden lake of fire swam over them, washing his eyes in liquid heat. His head seemed to float, expand. The gold upon his eyes darkened, became red.

  Running Deer saw a field of grass and upon the grass blue bodies lay with severed limbs and gaping wounds that bled deep into the earth. The blood seeped down into the ground and as he watched. Running Deer saw the bodies of the men become buffalo. The beasts pushed themselves to their feet and began to thunder over the plain.

  The sound of their hooves echoed and echoed around Running Deer’s brain until he thought his skull must burst.

  But the sound faded and now there was an Indian riding through the field. The bodies were there again, bleeding and dead, and the Indian rode between them. In his right hand was an axe and the blade of the axe was bright with blood. In his left hand was a knife and the blade of the knife was bright with blood. He was a warrior with a round shield on his arm and at the center of that shield was fixed a single white feather. The white feather of an eagle. Purest white.

  Running Deer looked at the face and saw that it was his own.

  The face was proud, fierce, painted with jagged lines of white, red and black. His hair was scraped back and tied in a pigtail and from the pigtail hung another feather. The same. The white feather of an eagle.

  Running Deer stared into the eyes and they stared back at him, burning, burning...

  He slumped forwards, head and shoulders dropping against his thighs as his body slipped to the hard rock.

  Running Deer lost consciousness.

  When he awoke it was cold, it was night, and he knew that he was Running Deer no longer.

  He had seen what he had come for. He had sought his vision and it had appeared. He had looked for the wisdom of the sun and it had been revealed to him.

  No more Running Deer. Now he was White Eagle.

  White Eagle waited patiently, watching while Red Oak selected from amongst the lengths of cherry and juneberry which he kept in a bundle and wrapped around with hide. The shoots had already been cut to length and now that they were seasoned Red Oak could apply his craft. Of all those arrow-makers among the Oglala Sioux he was the finest. Had he not made arrows for Crazy Horse at the battle with Long Hair?

  Red Oak’s hands were bent inwards with rheumatism and their knuckles swollen to twice, their proper size. He worked slowly and with considerable pain. But his workmanship was still beyond question.

  ‘Hold these tight together.’

  Red Oak gave White Eagle two pieces of sandstone. When they were held against each other a small hole showed at the center. Through this hole Red Oak pushed and pulled the shoots of wood, smoothing it down until it was silken to the touch.

  Then he looked along each one and picked up a bone tool with a hole set in it; gradually he corrected the line of the arrow until it was perfectly straight. Red Oak’s hands had suffered with age, but not his eye.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing.

  White Eagle unwrapped the piece of sharpened flint from its leather covering and passed it to the old man. Red Oak used the flint to cut lightning lines down the shafts of the arrows. They would keep the wood from curving; help it to fly like lightning to its target.

  Red Oak cut a cleft at either end of the arrows.

  The arrowheads were kept in a doeskin pouch, the sides of which were decorated with blue and green beading. Red Oak unfastened the leather around the top of the pouch and let the beads fall out on to the ground.

  Some were of flint but most were of metal—iron arrowheads fashioned and sharpened with infinite care.

  It was for White Eagle to choose which he wanted.

  Red Oak would
once have heated the glue made from buffalo hooves in a container which had been cut from the lining of a buffalo’s stomach. Now he used a tin pan purchased from a white trader.

  The arrowheads were fitted into the clefts and glued, then bound round tight with thin strips of hide. Into the opposite end, Red Oak fastened three buzzard feathers.

  White Eagle stared at the finished arrows with a sense of expectation and excitement.

  ‘You have a bow for me,’ he said. It was not a question.

  Red Oak stared at the young brave’s face for several minutes, as if deciding. Then he clambered to his feet and fetched a length of patterned blanket. He unrolled the blanket and exposed a bow case made from light buckskin. Attached to the case was a quiver of the same material.

  Quiver and case were decorated with white and red beads in the shape of stars; fringes of leather had become folded into one another at the ends.

  Red Oak drew the ash bow from the case and held it out in front of the young brave.

  ‘In the fight against the Long Knives. With Crazy Horse as War Chief. This was used many times. Also before. But never since that day.’

  White Eagle took it from his swollen hands. ‘It shall be used again.’

  Red Oak nodded but there was no joy in his face. He took the bow and strung it with a pair of buffalo sinews which had been twisted tight together. White Eagle took the bow back from him and fitted one of the new arrows into place.

  It felt perfect, different from any time that he had held a bow before.

  ‘You must use these arrows with wisdom,’ counseled Red Oak.

  White Eagle nodded. ‘It shall be so. I have seen what I must do in the sun. It is not the way of Crooked Snake who hides in the dry hills to the north and does not come out. It is not the way of Morning Cloud who is old and feeble and who leads his people nowhere and will not fight. It is the way of White Eagle who will destroy the white man and drive him from our lands so that we may ride as a free people once more.’