The Powder River by Win Blevins

Regrettably, it made no difference.
    The old woman rolled over. She had brought her quills and paints. She could get a good piece of cloth from someone. She would help Lisette and Rain do the quillwork—Calling Eagle was especially skilled at quillwork. To save the people, it had to get done fast.
    The scouts brought bad news that day. The white people all over the country ahead, which they called Kansas, were in an uproar about Indian troubles. Their newspapers talked about little else. Their governor helped arm the town of Dodge, a ride of a day or two from where the tribe would cross the Arkansas. Army posts were on alert. White people everywhere were demanding protection from the marauding savages.
    Scouts who had spent time among the whites sneaked into Dodge City and Fort Dodge and got all this news. Everyone agreed they were lucky to know what was going on. Smith read the newspapers the scouts brought back and confirmed that things were at least as bad as the scouts said. They could expect big trouble at the crossing of the Arkansas, if not before.
    What no one could understand was why the whites thought so many ranches had been raided, so many people killed. It was true that Little Wolf and Morning Star could not always control the young men, but the newspapers were reporting at least a hundred whites killed. The Tsistsistas-Suhtaio could count six.
    A special train would take troops and volunteers from Dodge City to the river crossing the whites called Dull Knife, one of the names of Morning Star, turning two days on horseback into two hours by rail. That was where the Cheyennes were headed. Volunteers meant cowboys and other men who were eager to kill Indians. That was bad. The people had encountered white volunteers before—at Sand Creek, and at the fight against the buffalo hunters on the Sappa Creek, and other places. Volunteers lacked the discipline of troops and went wild. Sappa Creek had horrified these Cheyennes, and they still wouldn’t talk about it.
    In camp tonight the people were worried. Maybe a big massacre here, another Sand Creek, would end it all.
    So they were astounded when the crier came around the camp announcing a great feast to be offered by Lisette two nights from then. A great feast meant a day spent in camp when they needed to be hurrying north every hour. But it also meant powerful medicine, medicine that might change the destiny of the people. They couldn’t imagine what.
    Smith and Elaine were as curious as anybody about why his mother would give a feast now. When she asked them to get a horse for the feast, though, they asked no questions, but simply rode out to trade for one. At Elaine’s suggestion, they decked themselves out as respectable white folks. Elaine put on her best dress. Smith wore his proper doctor’s outfit, his black Prince Albert coat, gray woolen trousers, and Jefferson boots.
    Smith felt silly dressed up that way, maybe even dishonest. Could clothes make a giant, long-haired half-breed look respectable? But Elaine looked at him benevolently and said, “You are a doctor, you know.”
    It turned out that Elaine’s idea was a good one. Despite her presence the rancher eyed Smith suspiciously. But he got a fat animal in exchange for his revolver. The rancher said he needed the weapon more than a critter the marauding redskins were going to run off anyway. This remark came with more dark looks.
    Elaine and Bain spent all the next day cooking. Lisette and Calling Eagle couldn’t help because they were busy doing something in private—sewing, Smith gathered. The horse would not make a proper feast—buffalo would have been a better way to set off an auspicious occasion. Smith knew his mother also would have wanted to serve cakes of cornmeal, Jerusalem artichokes, coffee with lots of sugar, and other treats. But she didn’t have them, and Calling Eagle wouldn’t wait. Though Smith had no idea why, he felt patient. Patience was something he’d learned from his