THE NIGHT OF THE CHEYENNE CALLED WHITE EAGLE
By Andamogirl
WWW
ACT FOUR
Part three
Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse galloped wildly across the plain, Artemus gripping the gelding with his knees, his fists tightened against the 'war bridle', a cord made from hide, that was looped around the lower jaw of the horse for control.
He could hear the warriors behind him, trying to catch up with him. But it was useless. The pinto horse was far too fast.
However, several arrows whizzed right past his sides and head missing his body by inches. Damn it. 'Too close for comfort', he thought, pure adrenaline coursing through his entire body.
Flattening himself over Mo's withers to become a harder target Artemus engaged Mo to gallop in zig zags, knowing it was much more difficult for his pursuers to hit him the more erratically he moved.
Other arrows buzzed past him.
Soon the sounds of hoof beats and the cries of the warriors diminished and then became distant. He knew he had outdistanced them.
He was smiling; relieved when he suddenly let out a strangled cry as he felt something piercing the skin of his back, embedding in his flesh a little more with each movement of the horse.
He had been hit by an arrow.
His pursuers had slowed down so as to have a more precise aim, he thought, trying to ignore the painful, burning sensation radiating from his back.
He rapidly felt lightheaded as blood was pouring from the wound and his vision blurred. He gripped the mane of the gelding even more tightly.
Pain finally claimed Artie as he blacked out.
Feeling that his owner was slowly slipping from his back Mo slowed down and stopped just before Artie collapsed to the ground.
Five minutes later, the leader of the Cheyenne warriors slid from his horse – and faced an angry and protective Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse shielding his owner with his large frame.
The gelding tossed his head, and flattened his ears back, the whites of his eyes showing as he flared his nostrils and curled his lip in warning.
Two warriors surrounded Mo and caught his sole rein before he could rear up. But Mo snorted and stamped his hooves and moved backward, wanting to escape.
In the meantime the leader of the Cheyenne crouched beside Artemus and searched for the letter from President Grant.
He didn't find it, and – very upset, he took his knife and placed the blade against Artemus's neck. Then he calmed down as he realized that Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse had probably given the letter to American Knife when he had turned his back on them.
He glanced at his two braves. "Release the horse!" and they did. He stood up and jumped on the back of his palomino. "American Knife has the letter!" he said to the others. "It's now too late to stop him!" He looked down at the prone figure of White Eagle, lying unconscious on his side on the lush grass and smiled cruelly. "We failed, but nothing is lost. Perhaps the Chiefs, too angry, will refuse to read the Big Father's letter." He glanced at Artie's prone form and added, "It's not a bad day. The White Cheyenne is dying. The wolves and buzzards will feast tonight!"
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Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse lowered his head to his owner and sniffed his face, before moving Artie's head to the side with his muzzle.
But Artie remained motionless.
The horse did it again but Artie didn't regain consciousness.
Mo, worried, moved away and began trotting, then he was galloping as he headed toward Red Tailfeather's settlement to seek help.
Mo was a few miles from the settlement when he suddenly noticed Blackjack galloping (with Jim on his back) toward the settlement and moved toward his four legged companion and his owner.
Seeing the pinto horse rider-less, his one rein war bridle floating around his neck, Jim West immediately knew that something bad had happened to his partner.
He felt his stomach turn over in alarm.
He grabbed the horse's white and chocolate mane soothing the horse with quiet, soft touches. "Shh… easy Mo, easy."
He noticed there was blood on the horse's white coat. "Oh God…" rubbing Mo's head, he asked the intelligent indian horse, "Where's your master, Mo? Where'd you leave White Eagle? Lead me to Artemus!"
Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse his sides lathered, nostrils flaring, whinnied as he shifted from foot to foot nervously, then he suddenly pivoted and galloped in the opposite direction, and to Jim's surprise, he headed in the direction of the Red River, opposite to Black Rocks.
Jim urged his horse into a gallop, slapping the reins against the horse's sides, following Artemus horse as it galloped away.
One hour later, Jim spotted his partner lying on his side, in the middle of a vast prairie. He rapidly dismounted and sank to his knees beside the other man – noticing the shaft of an arrow protruding from his bloodied back. He took Artie's pulse: it was rapid and erratic. But Artemus was still breathing, he was still alive, he thought, with immense relief.
He stood, patted Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse high on her collar and said, "Thank you. But Artemus is not out of the woods, Mo, far from it."
He opened his right saddlebag and pulled out a flask of whiskey. Then he took Artie's knife and gently rolled the unconscious man onto his stomach.
He cut Artemus's buckskin shirt, removed it and grimaced as he saw that the arrowhead was deeply embedded in his left side with a good portion of the shaft too.
He poured some of the whiskey into the wound and Artie moaned. He slowly came around and yelled as a searing pain engulfed his back.
The older man tried to move but West straddled his legs and placing a hand between his shoulder blades pinned him to the ground. He leaned toward Artie and said, "I'm going to remove that arrow from your back buddy, then we are going back to the settlement. Okay?"
Screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth Artie nodded. "Okay."
Jim removed Artie's belt and shove it in the older man's mouth. "I'm sorry Artie, but it's going to hurt like hell," he said.
Grimacing, Artie replied, "It already hurts."
With one hand on Artemus's back to pin him to the ground, Jim started cutting the skin then the flesh around the arrowhead. Artie groaned against the belt in his mouth. "I watched American Knife do this to you before… But I'm not as skilled as he is…" He said apologetically.
The younger man cut the flesh deeper and swallowed back bile as blood shot up from the wound around the shaft, soaking his hands.
Groaning, moaning, panting, Artemus couldn't help but thrash, tossing his head from side to side, limbs jerking, causing more blood to seep from his wound.
Jim stopped a couple of minutes later to pour whiskey on the bleeding cut flesh to clear away Artie's blood and prevent any infection – and Artemus let out a long muffled scream, screwing his eyes shut tight against the agony. "I'm so sorry, Artie…"
The older man croaked, "S'okay, Jim."
Finally Jim succeeded in dislodging the leaf-shaped arrow head from the torn flesh. "It's going to be over soon buddy, hold on! the arrow head doesn't have notches…it should come out easily…" and he slowly removed it before pouring the rest of the whisky into the wound.
Mercifully, Artemus blacked out.
Smelling a foul odor Jim brought the arrowhead close to his nose and wrinkled it. His face lost all color as he realized that it was coated with poison.
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Much later
It was the middle of the night when Artemus regained consciousness, drowsy, and so, so tired. His eyelids felt like lead weights, and it took him a minute to open them. The first thing he saw was spots dancing in front of him, then they vanished and he saw Jim sitting on the other side of a fire, looking at him, pale, eyes wet with tears.
He was devastated.
He let out a resigned sigh and breathed, "I'm not going to make it this time, right? Let me guess… the arrowhead was coated with poison… How long before I die?"
Swallowing hard Jim shook his head. Then, his face twisted in a pained expression, he let out, his voice hoarse, "I don't know, Artie. I don't know."
Sweat pouring off of him Artie gave Jim a weak smile. "Well… I won't say I'm happy to die, quite the… opposite actually, but I'm glad… I'm not going to die alone… I always knew that… that you would be here Jim, at my side, when… when…" He groaned and bit down on his lip. "H-hurts…" Violent tremors suddenly shook him and he curled in on himself. He was hot, so hot. It was like he was burning up from the inside out, he thought. "I'm not feeling good. It's like my insides are burning, attacked by some kind of acid…" then he started thrashing wildly on the ground.
Immediately Jim pulled Artemus on to his lap watching as beads of sweat were dripping slowly down the side of his partner's washed-out face. "I'm here, Artie."
Artie grimaced and hissed in a shallow breath. "Yes you are…" The last of the color had drained from his face and he swallowed convulsively.
Suddenly he turned away and he emptied the contents of his stomach. When he was finally done retching, he croaked, "I'm sorry, Jim."
Shaking his head, Jim grasped Artie's hand as tightly as he could. "Don't be," he said as Artemus moved on to his side with his head pillowed on his friend's thigh. "Do you want some water?"
Shivering now Artemus shook his head. His breathing was labored and his heart rate slowing. He coughed to clear his throat. "No, thank you." His voice was laboured and full of pain. He shifted restlessly, and groaned and closed his eyes. "I won't be able to… to write the mission report this time… You'll do it for me right? Put this in it: Red Tailfeather, American Knife, four warriors and I were on our way to… to Black Rocks when Cheyenne from another band stopped us along the river. They wanted… me, and the letter. I gave it to American Knife… and I galloped away. The other Cheyenne pursued me. I was shot… I mean I was hit by an arrow in the back. I hope that American Knife was able to read the letter at the gathering… and that the leaders of the Cheyenne won't go on the warpath…" He re-opened his eyes and started panting. "Indian tribes often use poisoned arrows… and they use different kinds of poisons… from poisonous snakes to some plant juices… I'm wondering what they put on that arrowhead."
A wave of pain set him writhing.
Hot tears fell down Jim's face and he tried to smile. "Always the chemist… till the end." He pulled Artie into his arms, holding him against his chest, feeling the heat pouring off his partner's skin. "I've so many things to tell you Artie… and so little time" A shadow crossed his face. "I feel so powerless, so helpless. You're dying and I can't do anything to prevent it, it's just awful…."
Closing his eyes again, Artie whispered, "I have no regrets. Being your partner, best friend and blood brother, being at your side, living through all these adventures with you… is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I've loved it. Every bit of it – even when I was hurt, shot and tortured…That was a pleasure Jim… Thank you for being my best friend, my brother… love you buddy… See you on the other side… but take your time, okay? I will wait for you and I'll keep the brandy… warm for us. And take care of Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse and Marmalade for me…"
The pain was less and less.
Jim closed his eyes a couple of seconds as his face fell. "I will." Then he watched as Artie's eyes lost focus, and whispered, "Stay with me, Artie. Don't go. Don't ever go, please…" and felt tears gather behind his eyes. But he knew it was impossible. Artie was dying.
"Good night, Jim." Artemus mumbled as numbness was engulfing his body and mind, and he slowly slipped into unconsciousness.
His strained face relaxed into a smile as his breathing slowed and he closed his eyes, his expression entirely peaceful.
His fingers went slack in Jim's hands.
Jim clung to Artemus, holding him even more tightly in his arms, attempting to blink back tears. "It's okay, I'm right here, buddy." He gently laid Artie's limp body on the ground and put two shaking fingers on Artemus's neck. He waited for a few seconds, but there was nothing there. No pulse. He let out a strangled sob and leaning forward, he rested his forehead against Artie's. "Good night sweet prince, may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
He cried.
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The next morning
Feeling something on his shoulder Jim woke up in start and in a reflex, he instantly un-holstered his revolver – pointing it at Red Tailfeather standing next to him, frowning in concern.
He lowered his gun, sighing in relief.
He noticed that the warriors accompanying the Chief were looking around them – on their guard. Cheyenne wanting war could be in the vicinity and waiting to attack them.
The Cheyenne Chief pointed at American Knife kneeling beside Artemus's prone form. "Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse is in good hands."
The Medicine Man tried again to rouse his blood-brother. "Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse, wake up!" he said as he gently shook the other man's shoulder. He placed the back of his hand against the white Cheyenne forehead. His skin was dry and hot.
Shoulders slumped, eyes humid, Jim sighed and shook his head. "He's not going to wake up, American Knife, he's dead, poisoned."
American Knife pressed his hand to the side of Artie's clammy neck and sighed in relief. "A dead man has no fever and no pulse. No, he's not dead, Jim," he said.
Beaming as intense relief and joy washed over him Jim said, "He's paralyzed? But I took his pulse, I couldn't feel it."
Motšėškevé'ho'é nodded. "It wasn't a poison, but a powerful drug." He raised the arrow and smelt the bloody arrowhead. "That drug is made to paralyze the enemy – in order to take prisoners. The drug is so powerful that it slows down the beating of the heart considerably to the point that it is very difficult to detect it." He pulled a handful of dried herbs out of his bag and added, "Those who did this didn't want to kill him, but to capture him to steal the letter from the President. The Great Spirit protects Artemus, everyone knows that, and killing him would anger the Great Sprit. No one wants to anger the Great Spirit." He smiled reassuringly. "With the antidote I'm preparing, he should wake in a few hours." He shook his head, frowning in concern. "He's deeply unconscious, but I'm more concerned with his wound. It's infected."
Feeling guilty Jim said, "I did my best with a knife and whiskey… but I'm not a surgeon, or accustomed to operate on people like you are."
The Medicine Man nodded. "You did the right thing James, don't blame yourself. Fortunately no major organ is involved. It's a flesh wound, deep but notlife- threatening. It will heal easily."
Feeling reassured – but only a little, because Artie wasn't out of the woods yet, Jim frowned and asked, "How did you find us?"
The Cheyenne smiled. "We spotted the smoke of your fire on our way back to the settlement and we came here to see who was on our territory." Taking a buffalo hide pouch, he placed the dried herbs inside, then borrowing Jim's canteen he added water to them. "When I saw that Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse wasn't dead but unconscious and unresponsive to any stimuli, I immediately knew that the arrowhead was coated with a paralyzing drug. Fortunately, I always have a large variety of medicinal herbs and potions in my bag to prepare all kind of remedies and antidotes."
Pulling Artemus against him, the Cheyenne brought the bowl containing the antidote to the other man's lips and pinched his nose. Artie automatically opened his mouth in order to breathe and American Knife used the occasion to pour the liquid into his mouth.
Artemus swallowed reflexively but otherwise he stayed unconscious. "There." The medicine man nodded and one bulky warrior lifted Artie in his arms. "Gently," he said.
The warrior gently laid him on a travois attached to Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse and then wrapped him in a blanket.
Placing his hand on Artemus's shoulder in a protective gesture, Motšėškevé'ho'é said, ""I'll take care of his wound once we're back at the settlement. I can't do it here. That's why White Bear and Black Crow built that travois while you were still sleeping."
Jim nodded. "Let's get back to the settlement."
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Much later,
Under American Knife's tepee
Lying on his stomach on a nest of furs, Artemus Gordon was slowly coming around while American Knife sat cross-legged at his side.
Immediately Artie groaned and opened his eyes. He lifted his head and then looked around him both confused and disoriented. "Jim? Help me;" he said in a whisper.
Moving on his knees beside his partner Jim placed his hand on Artemus's skin. He noticed that the other man was burning up, his skin a deep scarlet shade. He was shaking and drenched in sweat. "Yes, I'm here. You're going to be okay buddy."
Artie blinked dazedly. "Where's the General?"
Puzzled, Jim frowned. "The General? You mean the President? He's in Washington, Artie. We'll head back there once you're okay."
Closing his eyes Artie murmured, "I loved my dad… I was just a boy when he died… horribly. I don't want to die like he did… kill me, please." He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs as he rocked back and forth.
Jim patted his best friend's shoulder reassuringly. "You're not dying Artie. That doctor read you the wrong medical file. You don't have you father's disease." He looked at American Knife anxiously. "What's wrong with him? He knows all that."
The Medicine man used a knife to re-open the half-closed wound which was red and looking inflamed and a mixture of dark blood and pus poured out, pooling on Artie's lower back.
Jim blanched. "God…"
American Knife continued, "He has a strong fever and he's totally lost. He could even have hallucinations." He pressed on each side of the wound and then all around it to get all the foul liquids out, eliciting a series of cries from Artie who tried to curl in on himself, to flee the intense pain. But American Knife, using a hand like steel pinned him down onto the furs. "Don't move Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse. I need to clean your wound." Using a cloth he gently cleaned the wound and then poured some antiseptic potion on it – eliciting a hiss and a low groan from his patient. as the sting of the liquid permeated the wound. "I know it hurts, but it's not over yet…"
Gritting his teeth Artie croaked, "Just kill me… I… I don't want to be hanged for spying. I prefer a bullet in the heart; it's rapid, painless… please."
Feeling helpless Jim rubbed Artie's scalp to soothe him. "It's going to be alright buddy. It's just a bad moment to go through, and then you'll be okay."
His body racked with spasms Artie gasped out, "I want to see General Grant before I die… I have to tell him that I like him very much… that he's my second dad. I don't want to die, I don't want to die…" He tossed and turned on the furs, started to cry and buried his face in his hands.
Motšėškevé'ho'é stitched the wound as fast as he could. Then he placed a clean cloth on it before wrapping a bandage around Artie's middle. He leant toward Artemus and said, "Rest now. By morning the fever should be completely gone."
Reaching his hand out Artie mumbled, '"I'm sorry Sir… Mister President… all that blood… I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. You died…"
Jim nodded. "He thinks Grant's here with us, he's hallucinating."
Moaning in despair Artie grabbed a fur and covered his head with. "I'm responsible. I have your blood on my hands… God! Nooo!"
Gently, American Knife removed the fur Artie was using to hide himself, trembling, and ran soothing circles on the other man's back. "It's going to be alright, White Eagle," he said.
Artemus felt weak but he managed to move his head and make eye contact with the Cheyenne. "Thank you," he said softly.
Darkness came over him and his world faded to black.
Jim ran a hand through the tangle of Artemus's dark curls and sighed. "Poor Artie. He ran out of luck lately. Is he going to be alright?"
The Cheyenne nodded. "Yes. I've cleaned the wound and by evening the infection should be completely gone." He placed a blanket over Artemus, up to his shoulders and then sat cross-legged, watching Jim with questioning eyes. "What happened with his father?"
Sitting cross-legged too Jim said, "I don't know the details, just that his father died from a rapidly degenerative, incurable and fatal disease. His father died in a terrible crisis of dementia. Artemus saw everything. He was just a boy. His mother raised him alone."
American Knife nodded. "Losing his father was probably traumatic, especially at a young age. Hopefully, he found a new one."
Jim nodded. "And a famous one. A man the Indians call the Great Father."
Tbc.