Yesterday's Fire

Chapter 1

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The air felt heavy and bereft of sound. His horse was hesitant and anxious, pawing the dewy grasses that lined the creek that remained shrouded in a lingering fog. The birds, so noisy just moments ago, had gone silent over the soft sound of the swiftly moving water. Shards of sunlight sent highlights through the trees, yet he remained on edge as his horse snorted and stamped. When he heard the solid pounding of hooves across the creek, he turned his horse to face the oncoming rider, his hand gripping the butt of the Colt pistol on his hip. He held his breath as he waited, willing the fog to part so he could see who he would be facing. The sound of the running horse grew louder, and he could just make out the darkly moving shape behind the curtain of grayness. A wild-eyed riderless pinto suddenly emerged from the now swirling fog and stumbled into the creek, its frightened squeal unnerving as it went down. His own horse reared and fought the reins, and he worked to steady her as the pinto struggled to right itself. Once on its feet it stood quivering, snorting out water, the two eagle feathers knotted high in its mane hanging limply along its glistening neck. A slick of blood streaked down its shoulder and he looked quickly back along the path and listened to hear if anyone else was following.

"Easy girl," he cautioned his mount as he slid out of the saddle and tied the reins to a willow branch.

He spoke softly to the dazed pinto as he waded into the cold stream, trying to calm the animal. Reaching out his hand, he took hold of the simple leather halter and coaxed the animal up onto the bank, his own horse shying away and blowing his breath out nervously. Running his hand down the horse's shoulder he could see no wound, knowing it meant its rider was the one who had suffered. He fingered the feathers, noting the color and design of the bindings, his mind coursing through what he knew of the local tribes.

"Who's your rider, beauty?" He quietly asked the horse. "Cheyenne? Arapaho maybe? He's not talkin' Sheila. Let's backtrack. See what we find."

Tying the pony's lead to his saddle, he mounted swiftly and swung his mare around, urging her across the creek and into the shimmering fog, leading the compliant pinto back along the track it had just come down. The path was still cloaked in slowly dissipating fog and followed the winding creek up into the mountains. He stopped several times to listen, all the while wondering what the hell he was doing and why. He had no reason to go looking for the rider, just a growing curiosity that usually got him into more trouble than normal. It was his horse that alerted him, halting unbidden at the sound of laughter up ahead. The morning sun had finally shredded the fog, and other than that one burst of laughter, the only sound was the cry of a highflying hawk and the rushing of the water as it cascaded around the boulders that littered the creek. He pulled his old wide brimmed black Stetson low over his eyes and urged his horse forward, his hand resting lightly on his pistol. As he rounded the bend in the rocky path he saw three men gathered around a defiant looking Indian they had tied to a pine tree. He was impressive looking in spite of his bruised face, his long black hair hanging loose and his chest bare except for a small burnished pouch hanging on a long loop of rawhide. Blood soaked the buckskin on his left leg, but he was still struggling against the ropes that held him.

"Havin' a little fun before breakfast boys?" He called out easily as he slipped his gun free of its holster.

"Who the hell are you?" The skinny one asked as he gripped the Indian's throat.

"Found your prisoner's horse," he said as he rested the Colt across his saddle horn. "You fixin' to kill 'im?"

"What the fuck do you care?"

A husky man wearing a badly stained vest over a blue shirt reached for a rifle so he raised his gun and shook his head. "I wouldn't do that."

"This ain't none a your concern, mister," the third man said as he took a step toward him and pushed his short coat behind the holster on his hip. "You don't want to mess with us."

"What he do to you?" He asked in return.

"He's a goddamn Indian," the skinny one said as if it were a valid reason for their violence.

"So you just shot him off his horse for being born an Indian?"

"Only good one's a dead one," the man with his hand on his gun said with an arrogant sneer.

"Cut 'im loose," he replied coldly, his anger giving a sharp edge to his voice.

The three men looked at one another, seemingly bewildered by what he'd said. He saw them tense and waited quietly for them to act, knowing they were stupid enough to try it. The front man barely got his gun out of the holster before a bullet entered his throat and the one fumbling for the rifle had a look of sudden fear before his second bullet caught him in the chest. The skinny one managed to get a shot off, but it went wide and he cried out as two bullets ripped into his abdomen. The gunfire was still echoing down the gully as he climbed down off his mare to check the bodies. He took the rifle. It was the latest Winchester repeater and not one he could afford to buy. Then he turned to the man tied to the tree. The Indian was watching him, his expression bold with not a hint of surrender in his eyes. His muscles flexed as he tried to stand up straighter and his nostrils flared at the effort, but he didn't cry out from the pain he must be feeling, which was impressive.

"You understand?" He asked him as he pulled a knife from his belt.

The Indian nodded quickly and then closed his eyes and began a soft haunting chant, his face raised to the sky.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he said as he stepped behind him and cut him free.

The chanting stopped and the Indian stumbled away from the tree, fighting to stay on his feet, but losing the battle and falling backwards, landing hard on his backside.

"Now that was funny."

"Why you free me?"

"You speak English?" He was surprised. "Not many Cheyenne do."

"I am Arapaho," pride and some arrogance apparent in his tone.

"Sorry. Didn't mean nothin'," he offered a hand to help him up, but the Indian refused. "Need a hand gettin' on your horse?"

The man snorted out a disdainful laugh and struggled to his feet, glaring at him as he hobbled toward the pinto. The horse stretched its nose out toward him and nickered softly and then stepped closer. The brave leaned into its neck to rest, and then untied the animal and attempted to leap onto its back, but didn't quite make it. He uttered a soft groan before he passed out and slid silently to the ground.

"That is one stubborn Indian, Sheila," he commented, bending down to undo one of the dead men's bandanas.

He managed to drag the unconscious man over to a downed pine, muttering curses and complaints about how heavy he was. He propped him up against the trunk and then kneeled to examine the bullet hole in his upper thigh. The bullet had gone all the way through, so he tied the bandana as tightly as he could over the wound, hearing a soft grunt as he finished. He went back for his bedroll, shaking off some of the leaves that still clung to it and draped it over the still form of the Arapaho. He spent the next half hour going through the dead guys' belongings and unsaddling their horses. They had a few dollars on them, which he left, but he found some nice beef jerky in one saddlebag, which he appreciated, chewing on it as he dragged the dead bodies off into the trees. When he came out, he roped their three horses together and tied them to the tail of the pinto, before turning his attention back to the large Arapaho who was beginning to stir.

The three men he'd killed didn't look like local ranch hands, their guns were too expensive, and their horses wore brands he recognized from a couple of ranches down in Texas. He'd heard some of the wealthy ranchers in the area were looking for gunman to help stop rustlers, which was one of the reasons he was in the area. If these three had been hired guns, they weren't very good. Being slow will get you killed every time. Too bad they learned the hard way, although he held no sympathy for them, knowing what they probably intended to do to the Arapaho now staring at him.

"Want that help now?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

The man threw the blanket off and looked down at the bandana tied around his leg and then back up, his face softening with surprise and a bit of curiosity.

"Found this knife on the skinny one," he told him as he held it out to him. "Figure it's yours."

"What they call you?" The Indian asked.

"Lots a things. None too complimentary," he said cockily.

The Arapaho looked confused before asking again as if he thought he didn't understand or was stupid, he couldn't decide which.

"Call me Max," he finally just replied. "That's who I am right now, not that you'd know what the hell I'm talkin' about."

"Beecét."

"That your name?"

He nodded and held the palm of his hand out flat toward him with his fingers spread wide and then pointed at the sky and back at his hand, saying a string of words in Arapaho he didn't understand.

"What does it mean?"

"Hand. Five stars," he nodded firmly and struck his chest with his fist.

"Okay. Good talk," he said with a soft smile, the man nodding in return. "Who taught you English?"

"Grandfather say to learn," he responded. "To know what white man and their soldiers say."

"I don't envy you those conversations," he said sadly. "Met a few bastards in the army that lied for a livin'."

"You soldier?" Tightening his grip on the knife as he asked.

"Nah. Wrangled some horses for the cavalry down in Texas once," he answered. "And I do mean one time. Not my favorite experience."

Hand, or whatever his name was, nodded, but he could tell the pain and blood loss was wearing on him so he held out his hand to help him up.

"You ready to try getting back up on that little pinto of yours?" He asked. "You can take the three horses with you. Figured it might make up for what those bastards did to you."

"They have brand?"

"Yeah, but not from around here," he said.

"I will show Grandfather," he said firmly as he struggled to get up by himself. "He will decide."

Max grabbed his elbow and pulled him to his feet, steadying him as he limped heavily to the pinto. He could feel him shaking slightly and his skin was hot to the touch. The man accepted his hand up and that alone made him certain he wouldn't make it too far on his own. The Arapaho had a lot of pride, so accepting any help signaled he wasn't doing as well as he pretended. The man nodded at him and then turned the pinto back down the trail, the three horses docilely trailing behind.

He had planned to follow Owl Creek down into the ranch lands, so when he saw the Arapaho cut off onto a scruffy track that led straight into the Wind River Reservation he pulled Sheila to a halt and watched for awhile. Why he felt a connection to the tough Arapaho he couldn't have explained to anyone, but he'd admired his refusal to let those men intimidate him even while outnumbered and tied up. He would have resisted until the end came and he respected him for that. He'd always hated bullies and those three had paid the price. He was about to turn away, when he saw the Indian slump over the pinto's neck and the horse instinctively halted.

"Well shit, Sheila," he said. "Looks like we're not done yet. Dammit to hell. I hope I don't get scalped when we get him home. I like my hair."

He kicked her into a trot and caught up to the swaying Indian as he struggled to stay on the pinto's bare back.

"You don't look so good, Hand. Want me to tie you on or you want to ride Sheila here?" He asked. "Little easier to stay put when you got something to hold onto."

His comment was greeted by a string of words he didn't understand, but he was guessing they were Arapaho swear words if his facial expression was any indication. He did slide off the pinto though and with some extra effort he managed to help him mount Sheila.

"You been eatin' too much buffalo, brother," Max said as he leaped onto the bare back of the pinto.

"No buffalo for long time," Hand whispered.

"Think you can stay on?" He asked, deciding not to comment on the history lesson.

"I am Arapaho," he grunted.

"That didn't help you stay on before," Max said with a smart-ass grin.

"You big son of a bitch."

"You did learn English," he quipped, laughing deeply. "I'm startin' to like you, Hand Full of Stars or clouds or whatever the hell your name means."

The big Arapaho shook his head at that, but Max heard a small huffing laugh as they started on their way again. It was hard going through the rocky foothills as they dropped deeper into Indian lands, but the wounded man stayed in the saddle, even though he was barely conscious. Coming around the edge of a bluff, Max could smell smoke in the air and he pulled the pinto to a stop. He could just make out a small encampment on a high plateau, the tipis strung out along a low ridge above a meandering creek. The sound of barking dogs had him thinking he should probably just dump the Indian and get the hell away, but he liked to see things through and wasn't known for being all that bright when he got a notion in his head. Besides, if nobody found him he'd eventually bleed to death, making everything he'd done pointless.

"Wake up, Hand. You're home," he said as he urged the pony forward. "At least I hope somebody knows you here. Be just my luck if they didn't."

A grunt was all he got in response, so he cussed and tugged on Sheila's reins and headed down toward the oncoming inhabitants. Quite a crowd began to gather as he approached, and he kept his arms wide and away from his weapons. The barking dogs surrounded them, nipping at the horses and causing Sheila to dance away, endangering the Indian's seat in the saddle. He spoke softly to the mare and slowed, reaching out to hold the wounded man in place, so he didn't see who hit him, but it sure as hell hurt and definitely pissed him off.

"Fuck off," he shouted as many hands reached for him, trying to drag him off the pony.

The surrounding crowd was shouting now, and someone grabbed at the pinto's halter but the pony shied and reared away, unseating him and dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground. Fists pummeled him and he lost track of how many times he was kicked, cursing loudly as he tried to explain, but mostly regretting his decision to come this far for someone he didn't even know. All of it stopped suddenly, and he groaned in relief, choking on the dust that now coated him, finally looking up as the men and women parted for an old man. The elaborate quillwork on his buckskins and the many eagle feathers tied in his gray hair marked him as either a chief or maybe a medicine man. The only trade item he was wearing was a bright red neckerchief knotted close to his throat.

He managed to get up on his hands and knees before several men yanked him to his feet. An old woman stepped in front of him and hit him hard in the chest with what looked like part of a deer antler, and he stumbled, collapsing back into the dirt. The old man chastised her with words he didn't understand and she backed away, but continued to yell at him. He managed to see them none too gently dragging Hand toward the old man, dropping him at his feet. The wounded man groaned as the old man knelt down next to him and gently brushed his long hair away from his face. He said something softly to him and then took a cup from one of the women and lifted his head and pressed it to his lips, the water cascading down his chin, but reviving him. The old man seemed to be asking questions in the soft, tonal sounds of his language, pointing over at him as he did, and Hand looked over and shook his head and struggled to sit up. He then began angrily yelling at the men who had beat him, and they backed away, one even picking up his battered hat and placing it back on his head. Several helped him to his feet and began pounding him on the back and laughing.

"Your people have a weird sense of humor," he managed to say as he slapped the dust from his clothes.

"Your face bleeds," Hand said as the old man moved toward him, speaking softly as he stood resolutely in front of him. "Grandfather thanks you for my life. He invites you to stay."

"Think I should go, brother," he coughed out. "The rest of your friends don't seem too friendly, especially that old crazy woman with the antler. She scares the crap outa me."

Hand laughed, telling the others what he'd said and their laughter was followed by a hardy slap on the back that knocked him off balance. He steadied himself against Sheila, and turned to crawl up in the saddle, but was pulled down and pushed toward the collection of tipis.

"Don't take no for an answer then," he muttered as a group of little boys skipped along in front of the procession, touching him and shouting with pride when they did.

The smell of roasting meat made his stomach growl loudly, having not eaten since early yesterday except for the two pieces of beef jerky he'd taken from the dead guys. The man next to him called him something that had all of them laughing again, and he winced as he was roughly clapped on the shoulder. He was shoved inside a large tipi and pulled to the side as Hand was helped in and settled on a large buffalo robe laid across a raised platform. A gray haired woman untied the bloody bandana and then a couple of women began stripping off his buckskin pants. He was barely conscious now as his grandfather sat down next to him and put his hand on his forehead, his brow creasing in worry.

"He's got a pretty good fever going," Max said as if he would understand.

The old Indian ignored him and he was pulled over to the side of the large tipi by a young woman with long black pigtails wrapped in red trade cloth, and dressed simply in a buckskin dress that fell from her shoulders to just below her knees. A strip of blue and white quillwork ran along her shoulders and the edges of her sleeves, the yoke sprinkled with tiny tin cones hanging at the end of short strings of buckskin. She wore leggings decorated with painted crosses and simple moccasins. She was beautiful, her dark skin smooth but for a long, thin scar along her chin, which she hastily covered with her hand when she saw him looking at her. She scolded him and pointed, indicating he should sit down, which he was happy to do since he wasn't feeling all that great after all the kicks and punches he'd absorbed.

"You got any water?" He asked, hoping she understood. "Mouth's full of dust."

She suddenly giggled as one of the older women whispered in her ear. Another woman came up behind him and began to finger the long blond strands of his hair while she kept up a running monologue that had the other two women giggling behind their hands. Things got interesting when they proceeded to try and undress him. He tried to push them away, hoping to free himself from their groping hands, but they were stronger than they looked, slapping his hands away and easily holding him down so it was starting to become a losing battle. His hat was taken and while two pulled on his jacket the girl began unbuttoning the black vest he had gotten up in Butte right before he was run out of town by the Earp brothers. He'd just gotten the shit beat out of him, but he should have been able to keep four women from divesting him of the only clothes he owned. The beautiful girl pressed a finger over his lips and he quit cussing and stilled as she began to unbutton his dust-covered shirt. He watched her face as she worked, smiling at her lighthearted giggle when the other women pulled the shirt and vest off his shoulders, leaving him with only his dark blue neckerchief and black pants. He didn't remember them pulling off his boots, but his socks soon followed.

"Yeah, no...you're not takin' my pants," he protested loudly, remembering he'd left his cotton drawers in Butte when he'd made his escape.

Resisting a little more vehemently, they simply laughed and started to unbuckle his gun belt.

He grabbed the Colt pistol from the holster and everyone stopped and became completely silent. The old man turned to look at him and his face turned dark and stony as he spoke quietly to the women, who hurriedly backed away. He wasn't pointing the six-shooter at anyone, but the old Indian stood and stalked towards him, his face fierce. Max laid the weapon down on the ground and raised both hands to show he didn't want to hurt anyone, but the old man took two quick strides and backhanded him with his fist, knocking him onto his back.

"You insulted him," Hand said. "He is my grandfather. This is his home. The three women are his daughters. The girl is his granddaughter. He welcomed you."

"I meant no harm, brother," Max replied as he felt the tender new bruise on the side of his head as he lay on his back. "I don't shoot beautiful women."

"You shoot ugly ones?" He asked seriously.

"No man. I only shoot men tryin' to kill me," he said wearily. "Or bastards like the three that shot you."

Hand quickly translated and the women started to shyly smile again.

"Your grandfather is a tough old man," Max said quietly, propping himself up on one elbow. "What's his name?"

"He is called Little Shield," Hand said softly. "He fought the white soldiers with Red Cloud. He was angry. His wife was killed when soldiers raided a village on the Tongue River. He is peace chief now."

"I just didn't want them to take my pants," he explained.

"They will not hurt you, Wox-Wonòt," he said with a laugh.

"What did you call me?"

"The people call you Wox-Wonòt," he replied. "Means Bear in the Belly. Your belly growls with hunger."

"No argument about being hungry," he said as he laid back on the buffalo robe, giving up as the women began pulling at his pants. "Why do they want to get me naked?"

"To put medicine where the men kicked you," he explained, his voice growing weaker as he spoke.

"Shouldn't they be helping you? You're the one with the hole in his leg," Max wondered.

"I help," Little Shield said loudly, glaring down at him.

"Good to know," Max raised his hands to show he'd give the old man no argument.

He watched the old Indian as the women began to rub some foul smelling crap over the darkening bruises on his ribs and thighs, getting a few giggles whenever he reacted to their touch. Their hands were gentle, especially the young one, who remained quite serious as she worked to clean the blood from a couple of cuts on his face. The two older women stopped at one point and began a conversation that included gestures toward his privates, which he quickly covered with both hands, making the women laugh.

"I'd a known if I was kicked there," he said as he scooted away from them. "What the hell are they sayin', Hand?"

"He sleeps," Little Shield replied softly.

"Is he alright?" He asked as he rose up to look over at the wounded man.

The old man tenderly tucked the buffalo robe around the body of his grandson and patted his chest gently. When he got up and came his way, Max scooted as far back as the women would allow. He didn't need any more bruises and he pulled at the robe to try and cover himself, embarrassed and feeling vulnerable in front of the old warrior.

"You first white man young girl see," he said as he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of him. "If soldiers come, I hide her."

"Why?"

The old man just stared at him, until he realized what the man was afraid would happen if he allowed her around the men he still considered enemies.

"I'm a white man," he said. "Why do you let me stay?"

"My son is dead. Killed by whites," he answered. "Beecét is my grandson. You fight for him. Bring him home to me."

"Those three bastards woulda killed him," he conceded.

"Why you stop them?" Little Shield asked, his weathered face openly curious.

He had no idea what to say or how to explain why he did what he did because he didn't know himself. The women had moved away and it was just him and this old Indian warrior who he was pretty sure held his life in his hands. He wanted to be truthful, but what could he tell him? It just happened cause he was looking for trouble as usual, or because the three men reminded him of his childhood? He couldn't tell him he'd been pissed off ever since he'd been chased out of Butte in the Montana Territory because he'd slept with the wrong woman. He'd been looking for a fight ever since and so maybe his grandson had just been the excuse he needed, although there was something about the tough Arapaho that had gotten to him. He'd simply reacted to the injustice of it all. He hadn't thought deeply about what was happening. He'd seen plenty of bastards do much worse than what he'd come upon. He had no illusions about the evil some men got up to in the West. The place was peppered with cheats, hard cases and deadbeats of every size and shape, from places he'd been to and from places he'd never set foot in, some from countries he'd only read about. The biggest sonsabitches were usually the men he ended up working for, who for whatever reason, thought they owned the place. You take the measure of a man real quick out here or you end up dead. You'd be smart not to trust anyone, and if someone looks to be a threat, you be sure to shoot first. That's how you survive. And if he was one thing at all, it was a survivor, just like the old Indian in front of him.

"Looked like he needed the help," was all he finally said.

The old man nodded and then began speaking softly, the music in the sound of the words almost a lullaby to him as his eyelids drooped. One of the women brought over a tiny wrapped bundle of what looked like sagebrush, the tips singed from fire. The smoke was pungent and the old warrior blew some of it into his face, stirring the lingering wisps with his cupped hand.

"I am hebesiibebe," he said solemnly. "You my neisie. You stay until you go."

"I don't understand," Max said, confused by the unknown words and the man's intent.

"He said he is your grandfather now," Hand said sleepily. "You grandson now, like me."

"Seriously? Well don't that beat the devil."

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