Bequests, Birthrights, and Brothers 1/3
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saroseficsSummary: Cheyenne may have failed to broker peace between Lionel Abbot and White Cloud, but he's about to discover that he does have a family after all--maybe more than one. (Coda to Cheyenne 6.08 "Legacy of the Lost")
A/N: I can’t be the only person writing Cheyenne fanfic these days, can I? Somebody else has probably already written a better tag for this ep decades ago—but if so, I can’t find it online, as nothing turns up in a search on FF.n and AO3’s Cheyenne tag is empty. So here’s my humble effort for what it’s worth. (I’m currently watching Cheyenne on H&I without a DVR and thus can’t double-check details from “Gold, Glory, and Custer” or “Legacy of the Lost” as thoroughly as I can for shows I have on DVD, so some bits may not be right. Chalk the whole thing up as an AU if it bothers you too much.)
There’s some very sensitive history both in this story and in canon. I’ve tried to tread carefully and take my information from Northern Cheyenne websites, and from similar sources like the biographical sketches by Ohiyesa (Charles A. Eastman), as much as possible while still remaining within the limits of the show’s sixty-year-old canon. (Cheyenne’s opinion of Roman Nose, for example, is based mainly on Eastman’s view that Roman Nose was a great but reckless warrior.) I’m also drawing on scholarship by Scott Zesch and others on the experience of child captives who returned to white society; Cheyenne’s hard to classify as a captive per se because of the age at which White Cloud adopted him, but there are certainly parallels between his story and those of long-term captives like Herman Lehmann. I apologize in advance if I give offense despite these good-faith efforts.
I’ve also had to take kind of a stab in the dark as to the date and location of “Legacy of the Lost.” As the Cheyenne Wiki notes somewhat despairingly, the episodic nature of the series means that the chronology of the episodes is all over the place, even within one season, and trying to map events of the show onto datable historical events sometimes forces Cheyenne to be in two or more places at once. There are no dates given in “Legacy of the Lost,” but Cheyenne gets a new hat while living as John Abbot that he wears again in “The Brahma Bull,” which is explicitly set in 1875. That’s slim dating evidence to go on, I know, especially since “Duel at Judas Basin” (1875), “Gold, Glory, and Custer” (1874-6, 1879) and “Savage Breed” (1878) show him wearing the old hat—but since the Northern Cheyenne were forced to move to reservations in Indian Territory just a few months after the Little Bighorn, “Legacy of the Lost” can’t reasonably come after “Duel at Judas Basin.” (Admittedly, other than the GG&C two-parter, these episodes don’t form an arc per se; but there we are.) Similarly, Bronco and Tom’s appearances are based on guesstimates of dates of some of their own stories (Sugarfoot “The Shadow Catcher” and Bronco “Payroll of the Dead”) that appear to put them in the Black Hills at roughly the same time.
Lastly, Small Bear is actually a character from the Cheyenne comic books whom I’ve sort of conflated with the messenger character in “Legacy of the Lost” played by X Brands. Cheyenne never appears in Small Bear’s stories, but I didn’t want to go too far afield in looking for a character name.
Many thanks to KayValo87 for helping me sort out logistics and to both her and jennytork for betaing despite not knowing the show!
Bequests, Birthrights, and Brothers
By San Antonio Rose
He said, “Damn you, Daddy” on the day that he died;
The man didn’t blink, but the little boy cried.
—Jimmy Wayne, “I Love You This Much”
“You do what you have to for family.”
“What rule’s that?”
“The unspoken one.”
—Mike Franks and Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS
Family don’t end with blood.
—Bobby Singer, Supernatural
Chapter 1
“Where’s it supposed to end?” Cheyenne demanded as White Cloud and Lionel Abbot stared bitterly at each other, clinging to their blood feud so tightly they wouldn’t even speak. “When there’s nobody left? Is that your solution? Well, if it is, I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed that I called either of you father.”
Abbot blinked first. Of course he did. The man wasn’t completely yellow—it was no small thing for him to allow Cheyenne to talk him into meeting White Cloud this way, alone with no other backup than Cheyenne himself—but like most rich men who’d grown from bullies to tyrants, he couldn’t bear to admit that he’d been wrong. He’d been stung by James’ admission that Cheyenne wasn’t really the long-lost and now undeniably dead John, and he’d been stung even worse by James’ decision to leave and Cheyenne’s refusal to let him avoid recognizing his own role in the mess. No, it was pride that had made him come and pride that now made him turn his horse and go home without so much as a backward glance at the man he’d spent a month calling his son. Cheyenne was sure it would be days, at best, before his words truly went home for Abbot, let alone the grief behind the mask of hate on White Cloud’s face. Abbot was probably more offended by seeing Cheyenne at White Cloud’s side than by anything else that had happened that entire week.
Cheyenne sighed quietly as he watched Abbot ride away. He hadn’t really expected to change the man’s mind, but he’d had to try. At least Abbot had curbed his impulse to spit venomous threats against White Cloud’s band, and there’d been no bloodshed—that was about the best outcome Cheyenne could have hoped for. Not that it mattered much to him personally whether Abbot lived or died, except insofar as it could end the killings, but he’d parted from James and Lorna on friendly terms and didn’t want to see them disinherited if Abbot died now.
Then Cheyenne looked at White Cloud, who was staring fixedly after Abbot. There was still hatred in White Cloud’s eyes, but it faded as Abbot disappeared among the trees. What remained were the sorrow and pain Cheyenne had seen before—and shame, deep shame. His shoulders hunched, and he avoided making eye contact with Cheyenne before likewise turning and riding away without a word or backward glance.
Cheyenne sighed again. He’d meant what he’d said, but it grieved him to see White Cloud so weary and broken, as if he’d forgotten how to smile. It would do no good to ride after him now, though, much as Cheyenne hoped this wouldn’t be his last sight of the only father he’d ever known. White Cloud was still clutching the last shreds of his pride more tenaciously than he held the old rifle in his arms and the threadbare blanket around his shoulders, and Cheyenne would only make things worse if he tried to reconcile with White Cloud too soon.
Abbot had gone south. White Cloud had gone north. Cheyenne turned west, alone.
It hurt, being back here, seeing all the places he’d loved as a child either barren of people or being turned into grist for Abbot’s empire-building mill. Maybe that was why he’d stayed away so long—not that he hadn’t had genuine reasons for working everywhere else but here. He’d tried to get along with Abbot, both from the real belief that he was John Abbot and for the sake of getting the land transferred to his own name so he could let his people return. But now all that had failed, and the happiest memories of his childhood were overlaid with the terrors he’d tried to forget… Abbot’s raiders killing anything that moved, White Cloud’s warriors boasting of white scalps, neither with any regard for Grey Fox, who belonged to both worlds and neither at the same time.
Sometimes he’d wondered whether he should have stayed for White Cloud’s sake. He suspected now that it wouldn’t have made any difference.
In this gloomy mood, Cheyenne found a clear stream and decided to camp early. Yet while his horse drank eagerly, his nerveless fingers fumbled and slipped on the cinch strap of his saddle. Finally he gave up, settled for taking his saddlebags off, and wandered aimlessly around the clearing, intending to look for firewood but too heartsick to focus on anything.
He had no idea how much time had passed when his mental fog was pierced by the sound of approaching hoofbeats and a cry of “Pó’ėhóóhe!”*
“Who’s there?” he called back, reaching for his gun.
A moment later, Small Bear, one of White Cloud’s most trusted warriors, rode into the clearing. “I’m sorry,” he stated gravely in the language of the People. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Cheyenne relaxed and let go of his gun. “That’s all right,” he replied in the same language. “What is it?”
“White Cloud is ill—it’s his heart. He calls for Grey Fox.”
Cheyenne grabbed his saddlebags and mounted at a run, praying to any god who would listen that they’d get to White Cloud in time.
“He had us follow the two of you at a distance,” Small Bear explained as they galloped back the way he’d come. “We heard nothing, but I saw where you went.”
“Did my father say anything of the meeting?” Cheyenne asked.
“No, he said nothing at all. We knew it hadn’t gone well. We’d just stopped to rest the horses when he gasped and collapsed.”
“Well, did you send a rider toward town? The white men have medicines—”
“They also have guns, and Abbot has filled their minds with hate. Even if a rider could reach town without getting shot, the healer wouldn’t come to us. We’ve tried to ask for his help in the past and been turned away.”
Cheyenne kept his opinions on the subject to himself.
Small Bear waited a moment before continuing. “The old ones say you talk like Black Kettle.”
“Black Kettle was a wise man, wiser than Roman Nose. He didn’t deserve what Custer did to him.”
“Well, they won’t say it, but I will: Thank you for trying to get our land back for us peacefully.”
“I’m only sorry it didn’t work.”
“Yes, but you tried when no one else would.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “Maybe I should have tried sooner.”
“I don’t think you would have gotten as far as you did.” When Cheyenne shook his head again, Small Bear pressed, “No, listen, Grey Fox. No one in our camp was talking of peace even two summers ago. We’d had no sign of Abbot’s mind until James Abbot came back from the East, and there was still hope for victory despite everything that happened after Medicine Lodge. Nobody realized our struggle with Abbot’s men was like two elk with their horns locked.”
That was a more vivid description of the situation than stalemate, Cheyenne had to admit. Normally, a fight between two bull elk would end with one yielding, but if their horns became too tangled to separate, they’d fight until one or both died. Maybe if someone had raised the analogy sooner—
“Wait,” he said aloud as something else Small Bear had said suddenly registered. “Why did James coming back change anything, and how do you know what Abbot was thinking?”
Small Bear didn’t answer immediately.
“Small Bear?”
Small Bear sighed heavily. “Last winter, just after the first snow, we were foraging and came upon James alone in the woods, unarmed. I almost took his scalp then, but he begged White Cloud to hear him out. White Cloud sent the others ahead but had me stay behind. James asked many questions about the attack on the wagon train, about his brother, and about you, and he told us of his father’s desire to leave everything to John. White Cloud showed him the locket, told him the truth, and then sent me away. I don’t know what deal they made, but I’m sure White Cloud wouldn’t have accepted the deal if he’d known the question-man would try to kill you.”
Cheyenne frowned. “How’d you know about Carter?”
“I was watching the house. After we found you and James by the river, I knew something was wrong.”
“Well, at least I’ve got one friend left in these parts,” Cheyenne grumbled under his breath in English and let the conversation lapse.
It was dusk when they reached the camp where White Cloud’s warriors had erected a couple of tepees and kept vigil over their fallen leader. Cheyenne tossed his reins to Small Bear as he slid out of the saddle and ran into White Cloud’s tepee. By some miracle, White Cloud was still breathing; he was asleep but roused at the sound of footsteps.
“Pó’ėhóóhe,” he wheezed. “Pó’ėhóóhe….”
“I’m here, my father,” Cheyenne replied, kneeling by his side and taking his hand.
White Cloud’s eyes fluttered open. “My son… I have wronged you,” he gasped in English. “I lied… to help… our people… but I… did not think… of what… that lie… would do… to you.”
Cheyenne swallowed hard. “I am hurt, my father—but I do not love you less.”
“Do you… love… Lionel… Abbot?”
“I tried to, my father. I wanted to. He did not make it easy. I think he loved the idea of John Abbot more than he loved me.” Cheyenne paused. “Now that is all he has left. I am sorry for him.”
White Cloud squeezed his hand feebly. “I did not ask… tell me… how you are.”
“Oh, you know, I’m gettin’ along. Nothin’ ever seems to fit for very long. But I still use every skill you ever taught me, try to save lives and keep the peace.”
And—there, the ghost of a smile flickered on White Cloud’s face. “Tell us… your deeds… my son.”
At that, Small Bear and the other warriors ducked into the tepee and gathered around, so Cheyenne switched languages and answered their questions as truthfully as he could. He’d never been a dab hand at telling stories in either language, and he knew he’d never accept a place among one of the military societies even if the elders agreed that he’d earned it. (He might not have minded being a peace chief, but the band was too small to send a delegate to the Council of Forty-Four.) Still, White Cloud had asked, and it was a more pleasant way to pass the time than simply sitting in silence. Some of the funny stories even got a few laughs from the others and genuine smiles from White Cloud.
The rest of the band arrived during the course of the evening, and it was nearly midnight when one of the grandmothers finally persuaded Cheyenne to eat something—just bread and chokecherry pudding, but delicious as it was, he had trouble eating much. His stomach felt like lead. He’d wanted to come back, to reconcile… but not like this.
One of the other elders watched him eat, then turned to White Cloud. “I thought you said Grey Fox was dead,” he said in a tone that implied a test.
“I was… wrong,” White Cloud replied. “Grey Fox… lives. He is… my true son.”
Cheyenne couldn’t put a name to the bittersweet pang of emotion that shot through him at those words. They didn’t undo the events of the last month or erase the harsh words White Cloud had said while trying to sell everyone on the idea that Cheyenne was John Abbot, but they were at least a sign that his adoptive father still loved him after all.
“Grey Fox is a great warrior,” said Small Bear.
White Cloud nodded. “Yes. So proud. So proud.”
Cheyenne managed a smile and finished the piece of bread he’d been nibbling on. Then he took a deep breath and looked around. “Look, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. If you men want to get some rest, I’ll keep watch.”
There was some murmuring at that, not all of which Cheyenne caught; some of his vocabulary hadn’t had the rust knocked off it yet.
“Go, my warriors,” said White Cloud in as commanding a voice as he could muster. “Let me… talk with… my son.”
There was no gainsaying an order like that, so everyone else left, many of the elders patting Cheyenne on the shoulder or cheek as they passed. Small Bear left last and gave Cheyenne’s shoulder a friendly squeeze on his way out.
When they were alone, Cheyenne sighed and switched back to English. “My father, let me take you into town. With a fresh horse, I could—”
“No, my son,” his father whispered in the same language. “You would… kill the horse… to no purpose. I do not… have long.”
Resigned, Cheyenne ducked his head. “Seems like everything I do these days falls apart.”
His father grabbed his hand. “No. Not everything. You can still… save our people.”
“How? Abbot won’t sign that land over to me now, not knowing who I really am. And you know I can’t stay here for good.”
“That is not… the only answer.” White Cloud swallowed hard. “My son… take them… to Little Wolf.”
Cheyenne felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn’t completely sure where Little Wolf’s band was, but at last report, they’d been in the Black Hills along with Morning Star and their Arapaho allies. “My father, Custer has found gold in those hills,” he reported quietly but urgently. “I couldn’t make him honor the Fort Laramie Treaty—he just wouldn’t listen to me. His men are carving up the land for themselves as we speak. Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse are already talking of war. If they convince Morning Star and Little Wolf to join them….”
“Little Wolf… will need… more warriors.”
Cheyenne huffed in frustration. “So you want me to let our people get killed after all, the way Black Kettle died at the Washita?”
“That is better… than staying… and starving.” Before Cheyenne could protest again, White Cloud continued, “I know… what I ask… and I do not… ask lightly. You are right… about Abbot… but the herds… are all gone… from this land. We ca-… cannot stay. It is… it is better… to die fast… than die slow.”
Cheyenne felt trapped. No matter what he did, innocent people would die because men like Custer and Reno wouldn’t keep their sworn word and men like Abbot wouldn’t let go of their hate. The best he could do would be to mitigate the suffering for a year or two… and with Abbot holding all the cards here in Wyoming Territory, moving the band to Dakota Territory did appear to be the only alternative.
White Cloud tightened his grip on Cheyenne’s hand. “Will you take them… my son?”
Cheyenne bowed his head and ground out, “Yes, my father.”
Tears filled White Cloud’s eyes, and he reached up with his trembling free hand to caress Cheyenne’s cheek. “Grey Fox… my dear son. Can you… forgive me?”
Fighting tears himself, Cheyenne nodded. “I forgive you, my father.”
White Cloud smiled, and the last of his strength seemed to leave him. “My eyes… grow dim,” he said as his free hand fell back to his chest. “I go now. My son… walk in beauty.”
“Be at peace, my father,” Cheyenne replied in the language of the People. “I love you.”
“And… I… you.”
With that, White Cloud breathed his last, and Cheyenne wept.
The following days passed in a blur of sorrow and ceremony. Before he knew it, Cheyenne found himself walking away from his father’s freshly-filled grave in a chief’s regalia, made to reflect his own exploits as a warrior. He’d felt awkward in accepting and wearing it, but the elders had insisted, and until he handed responsibility for the band off to Little Wolf, he was the best leader they had left.
That night, he pulled Small Bear aside. “What supplies do we need for the next two weeks?”
Small Bear sighed and shook his head. “Flour and cornmeal, at minimum. We can forage for berries, but even our dried meat stores are low.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. And how many people, fifty?”
“Thereabout.”
Not knowing how far they’d have to go to reach Little Wolf made the sums difficult, but Cheyenne figured he’d need two wagons, at least, to carry all the supplies. Abbot had given him enough money to cover that expense, as long as he didn’t have to buy horses as well.
“All right,” he finally said. “At dawn tomorrow, I want my horse saddled and four pack horses bridled. I’ll need a second rider with me, too. I expect to be gone for a couple of days. Tell everyone to be ready to break camp the day after I return.”
Small Bear frowned. “You’re going into town to trade?”
“I am. Father gave me a job to do, and I don’t want to lose anyone on the way.”
“I’ll go with you, then.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “I’ll meet you at the edge of town with one load, at that blind spot behind the stables where the road bends around the tall rocks, but it’s too dangerous for you to come all the way into town. The further away we can get before anyone works out that we’ve gone, the better.”
“My friend—”
“If I go into town alone, people will think I’m just buying for myself or a white friend. I don’t want to risk Abbot finding out and sending his men after us while we’re out in the open.”
“But where are you taking us?”
Cheyenne grimaced. “Well, that’s one reason we may be gone overnight. I need to send a few messages to find out for sure. Plus, the less you know, the less you’ll tell if Abbot’s men capture you. But generally speaking, we’re going east.”
Small Bear’s eyes widened. “East?”
“Maybe into Dakota Territory. As I say, I’m not sure yet.”
“We’re not going.”
Cheyenne frowned, confused. “What do you mean—” Then his frown became a scowl. “You think I’d betray our people by tricking you into going to a reservation?!”
Small Bear’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Grey Fox.”
“We won’t leave the People’s lands, I promise. And the less we see of the Army, the better I’ll sleep.”
Small Bear suddenly looked ten years older. “I believe you. I’m sorry. It’s just—you said ‘east’ but not where, and you’d said you’d worked for the Army before, and….” He scrubbed at his forehead, as if he had a headache. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have known you’d never do that to us.”
“I may be white,” Cheyenne said slowly, “but I’ll bear the People’s name until the day I die. To betray you would be to betray myself.”
Small Bear nodded his understanding and rubbed his forehead again.
“I can’t stay with you for long, but I can’t leave you here to be starved out by Abbot. Father told me what he wanted me to do, and I told him I’d do it.”
“I forgot you’d mentioned that.” Small Bear sighed and nodded again. “If White Cloud wished it so, we’ll follow you. I take it we’re joining another band?”
Cheyenne nodded back. “That’s the plan, anyway. I can’t promise how much better things will be or for how long, but it won’t be reservation-bad, and as Father said, it beats staying and starving.”
“There is that.” Small Bear took a deep breath and let it out again. “All right. We’ll forage as much as we can while you’re gone, since there may not be much more than rabbits between here and the Black Hills.”
“Well, at least rabbits are edible. I’ll try to get something more in town, though, at least some bacon, maybe salt pork and beef jerky. I know it’s not what anyone’s used to, but any meat’s better than none, and salt pork’s better than horse.”
Small Bear grimaced in agreement.
Next
* Grey Fox (Cheyenne—the usual word for “fox,” ma’ėhóóhe, literally means “red fox,” and there doesn’t seem to be a standard word for “grey fox”; I’m following the precedent of the name Grey Skunk, Pó’ėxáó’o)
A/N: I can’t be the only person writing Cheyenne fanfic these days, can I? Somebody else has probably already written a better tag for this ep decades ago—but if so, I can’t find it online, as nothing turns up in a search on FF.n and AO3’s Cheyenne tag is empty. So here’s my humble effort for what it’s worth. (I’m currently watching Cheyenne on H&I without a DVR and thus can’t double-check details from “Gold, Glory, and Custer” or “Legacy of the Lost” as thoroughly as I can for shows I have on DVD, so some bits may not be right. Chalk the whole thing up as an AU if it bothers you too much.)
There’s some very sensitive history both in this story and in canon. I’ve tried to tread carefully and take my information from Northern Cheyenne websites, and from similar sources like the biographical sketches by Ohiyesa (Charles A. Eastman), as much as possible while still remaining within the limits of the show’s sixty-year-old canon. (Cheyenne’s opinion of Roman Nose, for example, is based mainly on Eastman’s view that Roman Nose was a great but reckless warrior.) I’m also drawing on scholarship by Scott Zesch and others on the experience of child captives who returned to white society; Cheyenne’s hard to classify as a captive per se because of the age at which White Cloud adopted him, but there are certainly parallels between his story and those of long-term captives like Herman Lehmann. I apologize in advance if I give offense despite these good-faith efforts.
I’ve also had to take kind of a stab in the dark as to the date and location of “Legacy of the Lost.” As the Cheyenne Wiki notes somewhat despairingly, the episodic nature of the series means that the chronology of the episodes is all over the place, even within one season, and trying to map events of the show onto datable historical events sometimes forces Cheyenne to be in two or more places at once. There are no dates given in “Legacy of the Lost,” but Cheyenne gets a new hat while living as John Abbot that he wears again in “The Brahma Bull,” which is explicitly set in 1875. That’s slim dating evidence to go on, I know, especially since “Duel at Judas Basin” (1875), “Gold, Glory, and Custer” (1874-6, 1879) and “Savage Breed” (1878) show him wearing the old hat—but since the Northern Cheyenne were forced to move to reservations in Indian Territory just a few months after the Little Bighorn, “Legacy of the Lost” can’t reasonably come after “Duel at Judas Basin.” (Admittedly, other than the GG&C two-parter, these episodes don’t form an arc per se; but there we are.) Similarly, Bronco and Tom’s appearances are based on guesstimates of dates of some of their own stories (Sugarfoot “The Shadow Catcher” and Bronco “Payroll of the Dead”) that appear to put them in the Black Hills at roughly the same time.
Lastly, Small Bear is actually a character from the Cheyenne comic books whom I’ve sort of conflated with the messenger character in “Legacy of the Lost” played by X Brands. Cheyenne never appears in Small Bear’s stories, but I didn’t want to go too far afield in looking for a character name.
Many thanks to KayValo87 for helping me sort out logistics and to both her and jennytork for betaing despite not knowing the show!
By San Antonio Rose
He said, “Damn you, Daddy” on the day that he died;
The man didn’t blink, but the little boy cried.
—Jimmy Wayne, “I Love You This Much”
“You do what you have to for family.”
“What rule’s that?”
“The unspoken one.”
—Mike Franks and Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS
Family don’t end with blood.
—Bobby Singer, Supernatural
Chapter 1
“Where’s it supposed to end?” Cheyenne demanded as White Cloud and Lionel Abbot stared bitterly at each other, clinging to their blood feud so tightly they wouldn’t even speak. “When there’s nobody left? Is that your solution? Well, if it is, I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed that I called either of you father.”
Abbot blinked first. Of course he did. The man wasn’t completely yellow—it was no small thing for him to allow Cheyenne to talk him into meeting White Cloud this way, alone with no other backup than Cheyenne himself—but like most rich men who’d grown from bullies to tyrants, he couldn’t bear to admit that he’d been wrong. He’d been stung by James’ admission that Cheyenne wasn’t really the long-lost and now undeniably dead John, and he’d been stung even worse by James’ decision to leave and Cheyenne’s refusal to let him avoid recognizing his own role in the mess. No, it was pride that had made him come and pride that now made him turn his horse and go home without so much as a backward glance at the man he’d spent a month calling his son. Cheyenne was sure it would be days, at best, before his words truly went home for Abbot, let alone the grief behind the mask of hate on White Cloud’s face. Abbot was probably more offended by seeing Cheyenne at White Cloud’s side than by anything else that had happened that entire week.
Cheyenne sighed quietly as he watched Abbot ride away. He hadn’t really expected to change the man’s mind, but he’d had to try. At least Abbot had curbed his impulse to spit venomous threats against White Cloud’s band, and there’d been no bloodshed—that was about the best outcome Cheyenne could have hoped for. Not that it mattered much to him personally whether Abbot lived or died, except insofar as it could end the killings, but he’d parted from James and Lorna on friendly terms and didn’t want to see them disinherited if Abbot died now.
Then Cheyenne looked at White Cloud, who was staring fixedly after Abbot. There was still hatred in White Cloud’s eyes, but it faded as Abbot disappeared among the trees. What remained were the sorrow and pain Cheyenne had seen before—and shame, deep shame. His shoulders hunched, and he avoided making eye contact with Cheyenne before likewise turning and riding away without a word or backward glance.
Cheyenne sighed again. He’d meant what he’d said, but it grieved him to see White Cloud so weary and broken, as if he’d forgotten how to smile. It would do no good to ride after him now, though, much as Cheyenne hoped this wouldn’t be his last sight of the only father he’d ever known. White Cloud was still clutching the last shreds of his pride more tenaciously than he held the old rifle in his arms and the threadbare blanket around his shoulders, and Cheyenne would only make things worse if he tried to reconcile with White Cloud too soon.
Abbot had gone south. White Cloud had gone north. Cheyenne turned west, alone.
It hurt, being back here, seeing all the places he’d loved as a child either barren of people or being turned into grist for Abbot’s empire-building mill. Maybe that was why he’d stayed away so long—not that he hadn’t had genuine reasons for working everywhere else but here. He’d tried to get along with Abbot, both from the real belief that he was John Abbot and for the sake of getting the land transferred to his own name so he could let his people return. But now all that had failed, and the happiest memories of his childhood were overlaid with the terrors he’d tried to forget… Abbot’s raiders killing anything that moved, White Cloud’s warriors boasting of white scalps, neither with any regard for Grey Fox, who belonged to both worlds and neither at the same time.
Sometimes he’d wondered whether he should have stayed for White Cloud’s sake. He suspected now that it wouldn’t have made any difference.
In this gloomy mood, Cheyenne found a clear stream and decided to camp early. Yet while his horse drank eagerly, his nerveless fingers fumbled and slipped on the cinch strap of his saddle. Finally he gave up, settled for taking his saddlebags off, and wandered aimlessly around the clearing, intending to look for firewood but too heartsick to focus on anything.
He had no idea how much time had passed when his mental fog was pierced by the sound of approaching hoofbeats and a cry of “Pó’ėhóóhe!”*
“Who’s there?” he called back, reaching for his gun.
A moment later, Small Bear, one of White Cloud’s most trusted warriors, rode into the clearing. “I’m sorry,” he stated gravely in the language of the People. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Cheyenne relaxed and let go of his gun. “That’s all right,” he replied in the same language. “What is it?”
“White Cloud is ill—it’s his heart. He calls for Grey Fox.”
Cheyenne grabbed his saddlebags and mounted at a run, praying to any god who would listen that they’d get to White Cloud in time.
“He had us follow the two of you at a distance,” Small Bear explained as they galloped back the way he’d come. “We heard nothing, but I saw where you went.”
“Did my father say anything of the meeting?” Cheyenne asked.
“No, he said nothing at all. We knew it hadn’t gone well. We’d just stopped to rest the horses when he gasped and collapsed.”
“Well, did you send a rider toward town? The white men have medicines—”
“They also have guns, and Abbot has filled their minds with hate. Even if a rider could reach town without getting shot, the healer wouldn’t come to us. We’ve tried to ask for his help in the past and been turned away.”
Cheyenne kept his opinions on the subject to himself.
Small Bear waited a moment before continuing. “The old ones say you talk like Black Kettle.”
“Black Kettle was a wise man, wiser than Roman Nose. He didn’t deserve what Custer did to him.”
“Well, they won’t say it, but I will: Thank you for trying to get our land back for us peacefully.”
“I’m only sorry it didn’t work.”
“Yes, but you tried when no one else would.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “Maybe I should have tried sooner.”
“I don’t think you would have gotten as far as you did.” When Cheyenne shook his head again, Small Bear pressed, “No, listen, Grey Fox. No one in our camp was talking of peace even two summers ago. We’d had no sign of Abbot’s mind until James Abbot came back from the East, and there was still hope for victory despite everything that happened after Medicine Lodge. Nobody realized our struggle with Abbot’s men was like two elk with their horns locked.”
That was a more vivid description of the situation than stalemate, Cheyenne had to admit. Normally, a fight between two bull elk would end with one yielding, but if their horns became too tangled to separate, they’d fight until one or both died. Maybe if someone had raised the analogy sooner—
“Wait,” he said aloud as something else Small Bear had said suddenly registered. “Why did James coming back change anything, and how do you know what Abbot was thinking?”
Small Bear didn’t answer immediately.
“Small Bear?”
Small Bear sighed heavily. “Last winter, just after the first snow, we were foraging and came upon James alone in the woods, unarmed. I almost took his scalp then, but he begged White Cloud to hear him out. White Cloud sent the others ahead but had me stay behind. James asked many questions about the attack on the wagon train, about his brother, and about you, and he told us of his father’s desire to leave everything to John. White Cloud showed him the locket, told him the truth, and then sent me away. I don’t know what deal they made, but I’m sure White Cloud wouldn’t have accepted the deal if he’d known the question-man would try to kill you.”
Cheyenne frowned. “How’d you know about Carter?”
“I was watching the house. After we found you and James by the river, I knew something was wrong.”
“Well, at least I’ve got one friend left in these parts,” Cheyenne grumbled under his breath in English and let the conversation lapse.
It was dusk when they reached the camp where White Cloud’s warriors had erected a couple of tepees and kept vigil over their fallen leader. Cheyenne tossed his reins to Small Bear as he slid out of the saddle and ran into White Cloud’s tepee. By some miracle, White Cloud was still breathing; he was asleep but roused at the sound of footsteps.
“Pó’ėhóóhe,” he wheezed. “Pó’ėhóóhe….”
“I’m here, my father,” Cheyenne replied, kneeling by his side and taking his hand.
White Cloud’s eyes fluttered open. “My son… I have wronged you,” he gasped in English. “I lied… to help… our people… but I… did not think… of what… that lie… would do… to you.”
Cheyenne swallowed hard. “I am hurt, my father—but I do not love you less.”
“Do you… love… Lionel… Abbot?”
“I tried to, my father. I wanted to. He did not make it easy. I think he loved the idea of John Abbot more than he loved me.” Cheyenne paused. “Now that is all he has left. I am sorry for him.”
White Cloud squeezed his hand feebly. “I did not ask… tell me… how you are.”
“Oh, you know, I’m gettin’ along. Nothin’ ever seems to fit for very long. But I still use every skill you ever taught me, try to save lives and keep the peace.”
And—there, the ghost of a smile flickered on White Cloud’s face. “Tell us… your deeds… my son.”
At that, Small Bear and the other warriors ducked into the tepee and gathered around, so Cheyenne switched languages and answered their questions as truthfully as he could. He’d never been a dab hand at telling stories in either language, and he knew he’d never accept a place among one of the military societies even if the elders agreed that he’d earned it. (He might not have minded being a peace chief, but the band was too small to send a delegate to the Council of Forty-Four.) Still, White Cloud had asked, and it was a more pleasant way to pass the time than simply sitting in silence. Some of the funny stories even got a few laughs from the others and genuine smiles from White Cloud.
The rest of the band arrived during the course of the evening, and it was nearly midnight when one of the grandmothers finally persuaded Cheyenne to eat something—just bread and chokecherry pudding, but delicious as it was, he had trouble eating much. His stomach felt like lead. He’d wanted to come back, to reconcile… but not like this.
One of the other elders watched him eat, then turned to White Cloud. “I thought you said Grey Fox was dead,” he said in a tone that implied a test.
“I was… wrong,” White Cloud replied. “Grey Fox… lives. He is… my true son.”
Cheyenne couldn’t put a name to the bittersweet pang of emotion that shot through him at those words. They didn’t undo the events of the last month or erase the harsh words White Cloud had said while trying to sell everyone on the idea that Cheyenne was John Abbot, but they were at least a sign that his adoptive father still loved him after all.
“Grey Fox is a great warrior,” said Small Bear.
White Cloud nodded. “Yes. So proud. So proud.”
Cheyenne managed a smile and finished the piece of bread he’d been nibbling on. Then he took a deep breath and looked around. “Look, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. If you men want to get some rest, I’ll keep watch.”
There was some murmuring at that, not all of which Cheyenne caught; some of his vocabulary hadn’t had the rust knocked off it yet.
“Go, my warriors,” said White Cloud in as commanding a voice as he could muster. “Let me… talk with… my son.”
There was no gainsaying an order like that, so everyone else left, many of the elders patting Cheyenne on the shoulder or cheek as they passed. Small Bear left last and gave Cheyenne’s shoulder a friendly squeeze on his way out.
When they were alone, Cheyenne sighed and switched back to English. “My father, let me take you into town. With a fresh horse, I could—”
“No, my son,” his father whispered in the same language. “You would… kill the horse… to no purpose. I do not… have long.”
Resigned, Cheyenne ducked his head. “Seems like everything I do these days falls apart.”
His father grabbed his hand. “No. Not everything. You can still… save our people.”
“How? Abbot won’t sign that land over to me now, not knowing who I really am. And you know I can’t stay here for good.”
“That is not… the only answer.” White Cloud swallowed hard. “My son… take them… to Little Wolf.”
Cheyenne felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn’t completely sure where Little Wolf’s band was, but at last report, they’d been in the Black Hills along with Morning Star and their Arapaho allies. “My father, Custer has found gold in those hills,” he reported quietly but urgently. “I couldn’t make him honor the Fort Laramie Treaty—he just wouldn’t listen to me. His men are carving up the land for themselves as we speak. Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse are already talking of war. If they convince Morning Star and Little Wolf to join them….”
“Little Wolf… will need… more warriors.”
Cheyenne huffed in frustration. “So you want me to let our people get killed after all, the way Black Kettle died at the Washita?”
“That is better… than staying… and starving.” Before Cheyenne could protest again, White Cloud continued, “I know… what I ask… and I do not… ask lightly. You are right… about Abbot… but the herds… are all gone… from this land. We ca-… cannot stay. It is… it is better… to die fast… than die slow.”
Cheyenne felt trapped. No matter what he did, innocent people would die because men like Custer and Reno wouldn’t keep their sworn word and men like Abbot wouldn’t let go of their hate. The best he could do would be to mitigate the suffering for a year or two… and with Abbot holding all the cards here in Wyoming Territory, moving the band to Dakota Territory did appear to be the only alternative.
White Cloud tightened his grip on Cheyenne’s hand. “Will you take them… my son?”
Cheyenne bowed his head and ground out, “Yes, my father.”
Tears filled White Cloud’s eyes, and he reached up with his trembling free hand to caress Cheyenne’s cheek. “Grey Fox… my dear son. Can you… forgive me?”
Fighting tears himself, Cheyenne nodded. “I forgive you, my father.”
White Cloud smiled, and the last of his strength seemed to leave him. “My eyes… grow dim,” he said as his free hand fell back to his chest. “I go now. My son… walk in beauty.”
“Be at peace, my father,” Cheyenne replied in the language of the People. “I love you.”
“And… I… you.”
With that, White Cloud breathed his last, and Cheyenne wept.
The following days passed in a blur of sorrow and ceremony. Before he knew it, Cheyenne found himself walking away from his father’s freshly-filled grave in a chief’s regalia, made to reflect his own exploits as a warrior. He’d felt awkward in accepting and wearing it, but the elders had insisted, and until he handed responsibility for the band off to Little Wolf, he was the best leader they had left.
That night, he pulled Small Bear aside. “What supplies do we need for the next two weeks?”
Small Bear sighed and shook his head. “Flour and cornmeal, at minimum. We can forage for berries, but even our dried meat stores are low.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. And how many people, fifty?”
“Thereabout.”
Not knowing how far they’d have to go to reach Little Wolf made the sums difficult, but Cheyenne figured he’d need two wagons, at least, to carry all the supplies. Abbot had given him enough money to cover that expense, as long as he didn’t have to buy horses as well.
“All right,” he finally said. “At dawn tomorrow, I want my horse saddled and four pack horses bridled. I’ll need a second rider with me, too. I expect to be gone for a couple of days. Tell everyone to be ready to break camp the day after I return.”
Small Bear frowned. “You’re going into town to trade?”
“I am. Father gave me a job to do, and I don’t want to lose anyone on the way.”
“I’ll go with you, then.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “I’ll meet you at the edge of town with one load, at that blind spot behind the stables where the road bends around the tall rocks, but it’s too dangerous for you to come all the way into town. The further away we can get before anyone works out that we’ve gone, the better.”
“My friend—”
“If I go into town alone, people will think I’m just buying for myself or a white friend. I don’t want to risk Abbot finding out and sending his men after us while we’re out in the open.”
“But where are you taking us?”
Cheyenne grimaced. “Well, that’s one reason we may be gone overnight. I need to send a few messages to find out for sure. Plus, the less you know, the less you’ll tell if Abbot’s men capture you. But generally speaking, we’re going east.”
Small Bear’s eyes widened. “East?”
“Maybe into Dakota Territory. As I say, I’m not sure yet.”
“We’re not going.”
Cheyenne frowned, confused. “What do you mean—” Then his frown became a scowl. “You think I’d betray our people by tricking you into going to a reservation?!”
Small Bear’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Grey Fox.”
“We won’t leave the People’s lands, I promise. And the less we see of the Army, the better I’ll sleep.”
Small Bear suddenly looked ten years older. “I believe you. I’m sorry. It’s just—you said ‘east’ but not where, and you’d said you’d worked for the Army before, and….” He scrubbed at his forehead, as if he had a headache. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have known you’d never do that to us.”
“I may be white,” Cheyenne said slowly, “but I’ll bear the People’s name until the day I die. To betray you would be to betray myself.”
Small Bear nodded his understanding and rubbed his forehead again.
“I can’t stay with you for long, but I can’t leave you here to be starved out by Abbot. Father told me what he wanted me to do, and I told him I’d do it.”
“I forgot you’d mentioned that.” Small Bear sighed and nodded again. “If White Cloud wished it so, we’ll follow you. I take it we’re joining another band?”
Cheyenne nodded back. “That’s the plan, anyway. I can’t promise how much better things will be or for how long, but it won’t be reservation-bad, and as Father said, it beats staying and starving.”
“There is that.” Small Bear took a deep breath and let it out again. “All right. We’ll forage as much as we can while you’re gone, since there may not be much more than rabbits between here and the Black Hills.”
“Well, at least rabbits are edible. I’ll try to get something more in town, though, at least some bacon, maybe salt pork and beef jerky. I know it’s not what anyone’s used to, but any meat’s better than none, and salt pork’s better than horse.”
Small Bear grimaced in agreement.
* Grey Fox (Cheyenne—the usual word for “fox,” ma’ėhóóhe, literally means “red fox,” and there doesn’t seem to be a standard word for “grey fox”; I’m following the precedent of the name Grey Skunk, Pó’ėxáó’o)
