Sudden Country by Loren D. Estleman

into the country of the Sioux–and of Quantrill' s buried gold. He untied the reins and took them between his fingers. "Yes, sir," said he, releasing the brake, "I'll sure miss it."
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    C oming up on midday we saw our first Indian. He appeared atop a rise as suddenly as if he had been conjured, seated astride a whitestocking black with nothing but sky behind him and only his long hair stirring in the wind to indicate that he was anything but carved out of the hill. In leggings and breechclout and blue cavalry coat and campaign hat he was like a spirit caught between worlds, with a carbine slung from a strap over his shoulder, quiver fashion, and his feet in moccasins and the moccasins thrust into conventional white man's stirrups. Ben Wedlock, following the wagon ahead, sensed my excitement.
    "Easy down, Davy. He don't mean us no harm."
    "How can you tell?"
    "Because we can see him."
    And then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. After a moment he came around the curve of the hill farther down, leaning inside, back arched and one arm hanging as if coming in at an easy lope, although the black was in full gallop. Queen Victoria on her seventieth birthday could not have shown more grace.
    Deacon Hecate, sitting his bony claybank at the head of the column, raised a hand and the visitor drew rein thirty yards short and again sat motionless, his black shaking its head and throwing lather. Presently the Deacon turned in his saddle and caught Wedlock's eye. Wedlock pulled the chuck wagon out of line and we joined our guide.
    "A Sioux policeman out of Standing Rock," Hecate reported. "I know him not, but that's a grain-fed mount he is riding, with an army brand."
    "He's a deal from home," said Wedlock.
    Mr. Knox pulled his wagon abreast of ours. "What business has he here?"
    "One way to find out." Wedlock made a sign. After a pause the Indian signed back. His movements were as graceful and economical as his horsemanship. "He wants a parley."
    "Tell him to come in," said Hecate.
    The black picked its way through the fallen rocks at the base of the hill. Up close the Indian was young, not more than ten years older than I, his face made up of ovals, with a thick nose and dark eyes from which the lashes had been plucked. He was naked-chested under the army coat and wore a Colt pistol with a smooth cedar grip in a holster on his right hip. He said something in a harsh guttural.
    "He wants to know who we are and why we're here."
    "Ask him the same thing."
    The Indian appeared to think it out. Finally he replied at length.
    "You was right about Standing Rock," Wedlock told Hecate. "This here is Panther, a corporal with the Indian police there. He's tracking a band of renegades bolted the reservation ten suns back. Their leader calls himself Lives Again and he's got him a bellyful of the Ghost Dance sickness. That's what Panther calls it anyway."
    "He's tracking them alone?"
    Responding, the Indian pulled open the right side of his coat, where a raw scar bisected his rib cage. It had bled recently and dried yellow-brown.
    "He says five of them was ambushed by Lives Again's men hiding in the rocks. The others was kilt. He played possum and got two of Lives Again's bunch when they came down to finish him off. The others ran."
    "Why has he not gone for help?"
    When Panther spoke this time, I saw that he was not young at all, whatever his years were. There was a deadness in his eyes, and a setness to his cracked lips that might have been described, on a white man, as a grim smile.
    "He says that he has sung his song and that it's a good day to die."
    "Heathen," muttered Hecate; but it was plain from his tone that he was not unmoved. "Ask him where he thinks this Lives Again is now."
    "I know English."
    We stared, as if at a graven head from which words had issued. The Deacon broke the silence. "Why did you not say so before?"
    "When dealing with strange white men I prefer time to choose my words." Panther spoke carefully, as one