Free Ashes of Heaven by Terry C. Johnston Page B

this was the reason the Ohmeseheso, once the single richest, most powerful tribe on the northern plains, was now the poorest—reduced to begging for help from the Little Star People, brought to the brink of begging the white man for peace.
    â€œTomorrow,” Big Leggings said as he settled near her now beside the fire, “we will reach the valley of the Greasy Grass.”
    â€œMy people call it the Little Sheep River.”
    â€œPerhaps we will see the place where Sitting Bull’s Lakota and your Shahiyela killed all the soldiers last summer,” the half-breed said as he bent forward and filled his cup with more coffee.
    She stared at the fire for a while, then wagged her head, and replied, “That is north some distance from where we will reach the valley. Those soldiers were killed downstream from where the trail of this village will cross the Little Sheep River.”
    He sipped at his coffee, then said, “I am sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to seeing this place where the warrior bands saw their greatest victory.”
    Looking directly at the half-breed, Old Wool Woman said sadly, “It was a victory we did not learn from.”
    â€œWhat did your people fail to understand?” He wiped droplets of coffee from his upper lip, the firelight dancing on his dark face.
    â€œWe should have learned that the end was already coming,” she sighed. “We should have been brave enough to learn how to make a strong peace … the way we had made a strong war for as long as we could.”
    *   *   *
    â€œLooks to be this is the place where we turn back.”
    Johnny Bruguier warily flicked his eyes at the soldier who had just spoken, the soldier who was in charge of the escort Bear Coat Miles sent south with him to find the hostile camp. Staring back down at the valley below, the half-breed’s eyes narrowed in concern. Swallowing, he said, “Don’t wanna stick around? Maybe to see if we make it, or if I get shot riding in there?”
    The soldier shook his head. “General Miles give us our orders to turn back once we got you in sight of the village,” replied the soldier with two stripes on the thick woolen shirt he wore beneath his buffalo coat. “You and the woman gonna make it the rest of the way down there on your own.”
    Johnny watched the man turn to the others, quietly ordering them to check the cinches on all six of the mules before dividing off two of the pack animals for their return march to the mouth of the Tongue River. On that pair the soldiers lashed their own blankets and bedrolls, along with their rations and extra ammunition for their long rifles.
    Right about then Johnny wished he still had the Winchester carbine he had given Sitting Bull the previous year when the Hunkpapa chief presented him with the fine horse that had seen the half-breed through hundreds of miles of campaigning.
    He dropped from the saddle and flung the stirrup fender over it, tugging on the cinch. His heart thumped just the way it had the day he rode boldly into the Hunkpapa camp.
    Johnny remembered how he loped right past the first warriors who dashed out to confront him, pounding his heels into the ribs of that horse he stole in Whitewood, urging more and more speed out of it until he dismounted on the run and dashed into the first lodge he could reach. It turned out to belong to White Bull, Sitting Bull’s nephew.
    Would that fickle whore called Lady Luck chance to smile on him again today?
    Bruguier dropped the stirrup back in place and turned to the old woman, still seated bareback atop her soldier horse. He couldn’t blame her for preferring it to sitting atop one of the army’s god-awful saddles. “Are these your people?” he asked in his methodical Lakota, using a little sign.
    Turning to him, the woman said, “Perhaps. That is a big camp, so maybe it is my people, traveling and hunting with the Little