Chapter 2

Not only was Small Bear waiting for Cheyenne in the morning, but so were six other braves. Cheyenne didn't have the heart to tell them not to come, but he did give them strict orders to wait for him outside of town. "I don't know how soon I'll receive a reply to my messages," he cautioned when they stopped, "so don't be alarmed if I'm not back by nightfall. I'll try to bring the first load out before dark, though."

"We understand," said Small Bear, and Cheyenne nodded and rode on into town alone.

His first stop was the telegraph office, where he drafted coded messages to Bronco Layne at Fort Abraham Lincoln and Tom Brewster in Little Rock inquiring about Little Wolf's last known whereabouts. The line to the Little Rock station was down, but Bronco wired back almost immediately that Tom was with him and that they'd have the information by morning. That wasn't ideal—Cheyenne had half hoped that Bronco would know offhand and he wouldn't have to stay in town very long—but it wasn't unexpected, and at least Bronco had gotten the message right away, which meant both that it hadn't fallen into the wrong hands and that Cheyenne wouldn't have to resort to measures as desperate as tracking down Bret Maverick to see whether he happened to know. (The Maverick brothers had their strengths, but scouting the wilderness wasn't one of them.)*

Get it done, Johnny Reb, Cheyenne sent back to Bronco, took the horses to the livery stable, and went to the hotel to get a room and a bath.

Those must have been the magic words, for Cheyenne had just finished getting dressed after his bath and was adjusting the ring on his neckerchief when there was a knock at the door, which turned out to be the desk clerk delivering a telegram from Tom. Latest report puts Little Wolf at Devils Tower two weeks ago, it read when decoded. Report was made by a Crow scout. Watch your back.

Cheyenne suppressed a grumble at the misnaming of the sacred landmark known to the People as Bear Tepee, put the telegram in his breast pocket, and turned back to the clerk, who was struggling to move the tin bathtub. "Here, let me help you with that," Cheyenne offered and lifted one end of the tub enough that the clerk could pick up the other end. "I'm afraid I won't be needin' the room after all."

"Oh," said the wide-eyed clerk, though Cheyenne couldn't tell whether he was more astonished by the announcement or the ease with which Cheyenne had lifted his end. "Er. I'm… I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Abbot. Nothing seriously wrong, I trust?"

Cheyenne didn't bother to correct him. "No, just some urgent personal business I have to take care of right away. Where can we take this?" he added, nodding to the tub that was still full of soapy water.

That snapped the clerk out of his daze, and he took the lead on carrying the tub out back to empty. As they went, Cheyenne did the sums to work out what he could and should purchase before he left town. If the band could manage to keep a pace of twenty miles a day, they'd reach Bear Tepee in seven days. (The cavalry could do thirty miles a day, so he could only hope stealth would be enough to avoid alarming anyone.) Figuring a pound of each of the main foodstuffs per adult for the week and half a pound of each per child, and allowing for the cost of the wagons and some water barrels just in case the streams and rivers along the route were dry… it would be tight, but he could afford it, and a pound or two of coffee for himself. So he paid for the bath, collected his gear, and headed to the livery stable.

The stable owner had several wagons for sale; they'd all seen better days, but two looked like they still had enough strength to get to Bear Tepee, so Cheyenne haggled for them and got a good enough bargain that he could add a few more meats to his shopping list. While the stable owner got the wagons and the horses ready to go, Cheyenne went to the butcher, who cut him a deal for some fresh venison along with a side of beef and fifty pounds of bacon. From there, he went to the general store, where he negotiated enough of a discount on the water barrels, salt pork, coffee, beans, flour, and cornmeal that he could spend the last of his cash on a stack of new blankets, probably Navajo-made, woven of bright Germantown wool. He could figure out how to get himself to a new job after he'd met up with Little Wolf… a chief's first responsibility was to provide for his band, and it was worth the cost to know that the people who'd raised him would eat well for at least a few days and have better blankets for the winter.

His purchases made, Cheyenne went back to the stable, tied his horse to the tail of the first wagon, drove to the butcher's shop, and loaded the beans and cornmeal while the butcher loaded the meats. The storekeeper also helped Cheyenne strap the first two water barrels to the sides of the wagon. Once that was done, Cheyenne drove out to the blind curve and stopped when Small Bear jumped onto the wagon seat beside him. One of the other braves untied Cheyenne's horse.

"Take this down to the river to fill those water barrels," Cheyenne said quietly, handing Small Bear the reins and climbing down. "I'll be along in about an hour with the rest."

"Can you tell us where we're going yet?" Small Bear asked as the braves tied his horse to the wagon.

"I can. Bear Tepee."

Small Bear huffed in relief, smiled, and shook his head. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Grey Fox."

Cheyenne smiled back. "Go on, get that thing out of here before someone gets suspicious."

Small Bear nodded and drove off. Another brave followed unprompted, dragging a tree branch behind his horse to obscure the wagon ruts. For his own part, Cheyenne waited about half an hour before riding back into town, collecting the second wagon, and driving it to the general store to pick up the second load of supplies.

He'd just finished tying down the last water barrel when he heard a familiar bellow of "John! John!"

Cheyenne drew a deep breath and wrestled down both his anger and his anxiety. "My name's not John, Mr. Abbot," he said as he turned around.

"Force of habit," Abbot replied, striding down the boardwalk toward him. "I thought you were long gone."

"I will be, soon as they finish loadin' the wagon."

"Oh, no." Abbot closed the distance between them in a rush and put a hand on Cheyenne's arm. "No, don't go yet. Give me a chance to convince you to stay."

No words could express how much Cheyenne did not want to set foot under Abbot's roof again now, but it was worth one last try to get what he did want. "Will you sign that land over to me, in my own name?"

Abbot swallowed hard and backed away a few steps. "No. No, I… I couldn't do that."

"Is that because you won't let it out of the family or because you know what I want it for?"

That set Abbot's quick temper simmering, and his always-florid face reddened further. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Then there's no reason for me to stay, is there?"

Abbot went instantly from simmer to boil. "I've told you before, I won't be shamed by some self-styled martyr who walks away from his inherit—"

He was on the ground and bleeding from the corner of his mouth before Cheyenne even realized he'd thrown the punch. The first day they'd met, Abbot had taunted Cheyenne with the fact that he wouldn't fight an old man, but after everything Abbot had put him through, Cheyenne had had enough.

"I'm not your son!" he yelled. "That inheritance was never mine to have!" He took the last of the blankets from the frozen storekeeper, put them in the wagon, and closed and latched the tailgate.

Abbot picked himself up and scrambled after Cheyenne. "No," he pleaded as Cheyenne climbed into the wagon seat. "No, please… you're all I have left!"

"You still have James," Cheyenne noted, not looking at him.

"I want you."

"No, you don't. What you want is the John Abbot you've imagined all these years who'd do just what you tell him to, not a flesh-and-blood man with his own dreams and ideas who's not afraid to tell you when you're wrong." Cheyenne picked up the reins. "Sorry I fell so short." And he drove away, leaving Abbot spluttering behind him.

When he got to the blind curve, however, Cheyenne gave a signal whistle and stopped as the braves emerged from the rocks.

"What is it, Grey Fox?" asked one of them—Puma, Cheyenne thought his name was.

Cheyenne jumped down from the wagon. "Change of plans. Take this to Small Bear; tell him I'll meet you back at camp."

Puma nodded, and Cheyenne clapped him gratefully on the shoulder and untied his horse while Puma climbed onto the wagon. As before, when Puma drove away, a second brave followed, dragging brush behind him. Cheyenne waited one minute before leading the other three braves on a winding path back to camp to throw off pursuit.

"My people!" he called as they rode in. "Prepare to move as soon as the sun sets. We ride for Bear Tepee tonight."

There was some murmuring at that, and one of the elders asked, "What has happened, Grey Fox? Where are Small Bear and the other men?"

"Drawing water, my grandfather," Cheyenne replied as he dismounted. "The supply wagons are with them. But I saw Lionel Abbot in town, and we parted in anger."

The murmuring took on a note of dismay.

"I don't know what he may have guessed or been told," Cheyenne continued. "But I don't want to risk staying here another night."

"You are wise, my grandson," the elder agreed as the rest of the band immediately started the process of tearing down the camp. "The nights will be dark at this time of the moon, so we can move without being seen. But we have small children, and some of us are too weak to walk so far."

Cheyenne nodded. "We must make room in the wagons. The oldest and the youngest can ride together and not fear for our pace. I have bought meat, also, and other stores that will give us strength for the journey."

The elder looked ready to cry as he clasped Cheyenne by the shoulders. "Truly you are White Cloud's son."

Cheyenne couldn't think of any higher praise he could have received.

Only the cooking fires remained when Small Bear arrived with the wagons, and the supplies were swiftly and joyfully divided among the families. Cheyenne did have to warn everyone not to sing too loudly and give away their position, but the delighted smiles, happy chatter, and songs of thanks to Maheo were worth every penny he'd spent and then some. And as night fell, he personally settled the elders and the toddlers in the wagons.

Then he mounted his own horse, turned to the rest of the band, and announced, "We will be traveling by night, my people, and we cannot risk discovery. Take care as you walk that neither you nor your horses stumble. If you spy game, do not fire your rifles; shoot only arrows. We will be avoiding towns and homesteads, and there will be no raiding. Be as silent as the deer, and leave nothing but the ashes of your fires behind you."

"We understand, Grey Fox," Small Bear answered for everyone. Even before Cheyenne had thought to ask, Small Bear had already assigned three riders to brush over their trail.

Cheyenne nodded, rode to the head of the column, and gave the order to move out.

The first five nights passed mercifully without incident. Nobody who stood guard during the day spotted any game, but water was plentiful and the skies were clear, and they made good time. Back in buckskins, Cheyenne normally rode point, but at every rest stop he checked with those riding flank and drag, and none ever spotted any sign of pursuit. Although the weather was beginning to turn cold, even the children were troupers, and the elders in the wagons kept the toddlers entertained with stories, so morale was relatively high despite having to leave their accustomed hunting grounds behind.

"Abbot may have won by forcing us to leave," Puma noted at one point, "but the fact that we still live will rob the victory of its sweetness. And I think he'll find his life the poorer now that he has no one left to fight."

Cheyenne looked at him sidelong. "How old are you, Puma?"

"Eighteen summers," Puma replied proudly.

"Pretty wise for a child."

Puma spluttered, and everyone at the fire laughed, but not unkindly.

The band was preparing to eat before undertaking their sixth night of travel, however, when a lookout reported to Cheyenne that there were two white riders approaching from the south. Cheyenne had just given orders for the warriors to be on guard but not fire until he himself gave the word when he heard a shout in English:

"Hello, the camp! Bodie! Cheyenne Bodie, you there?"

Cheyenne couldn't believe his ears until he turned and the lookout pointed out the riders coming through the prairie grass. Even then, he could scarcely believe his eyes—he couldn't make out the faces terribly well, but he recognized the hats.

"Cheyenne?" called a second, higher voice. "'S'at you?!"

Cheyenne grinned so big, he thought his face might split. "Tom! Bronco!" he called back. "Come ahead!"

"You know them, Grey Fox?" Small Bear asked in the language of the People.

Cheyenne nodded. "Sweet Foot and Bucking Horse are old friends of mine," he explained quietly in the same language. "They're not to be harmed—but I want a watch kept in case they've been followed."

The other warriors murmured their understanding, but Small Bear frowned in confusion. "Sweet Foot?"

Cheyenne grimaced. "I guess it doesn't translate so well… when a white man is new in the West, other white men say, 'His foot is tender.' When he's new and lacks skill, they say, 'His foot is sweet.'"

The warriors were still laughing about that when Tom and Bronco rode up. "Lemme guess," Tom said, rolling his eyes as he dismounted. "You called me Sugarfoot."

"Not 'cause I think any less of you," Cheyenne disclaimed in English and walked over to shake hands. "Sure am glad to see you fellas."

Tom smiled back at him and shook his hand warmly. "Good to see you, too, Cheyenne."

Bronco's smile, on the other hand, didn't reach his eyes. "Reckoned we might run into you out here," he said as he shook hands with Cheyenne. "That's why we volunteered to scout for the cavalry patrol that's camped just over the ridge behind us."

Cheyenne raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Can they see much from there?"

"Not clearly. Cap'n Benteen sent us to see what we could find out."

"I see." Benteen was no great friend of the People, but he was no friend of Custer's, either, and didn't have a lot of use for Reno. From what he'd told Cheyenne privately about his own part in the Battle of the Washita River, Cheyenne was willing to believe Benteen wouldn't give chase when the band disappeared overnight—if Tom and Bronco could convince him that they weren't hostile. Cheyenne took a deep breath. "Well, we're just about to eat. Will you join us?"

Bronco's smile turned genuine. "Sure. Been out here long?"

Cheyenne scoffed. "I don't even know what day it is right now. C'mon."

"Do any of these people speak English?" Tom asked as Cheyenne ushered them toward his own fire.

"Some of 'em," Cheyenne replied, deliberately vaguely in hopes they wouldn't notice Small Bear translating for the elders, and offered coffee as they sat down. "So how's life up at Fort Lincoln?"

"Tense," Tom stated and punctuated it with a drink of coffee. "We didn't leave from there, though—they've rigged up a temporary telegraph line to the gold camp."

Bronco shook his head. "Custer's got gold fever and blood lust in about equal parts. This keeps up, I dunno how long he'll hang onto his command or his scalp. Half tempted to take it myself," he added under his breath into his cup.

Cheyenne huffed. "Careful, Bronco. Folks'll talk."

Tom choked trying not to laugh.

After that, the conversation was entirely about light, inconsequential matters, and Tom and Bronco ate just enough to be polite, although they both exclaimed loudly over how tasty it was. Cheyenne could never quite tell what Bronco was thinking, but Tom, at least, seemed not to want to take too much from people who were clearly on the brink of starvation.

"Saw your gal 'fore we left the fort," Bronco finally said as Cheyenne walked the two visitors out of camp.

Cheyenne's heart squeezed. "Irene? How is she?" He missed her, but he hadn't forgotten her views on the Sioux.

"She's fine. Broke things off with Reno for good, or so she says." Bronco gave Cheyenne a searching look. "What do you want me to tell her when we get back?"

Cheyenne sighed and shrugged. "The truth, I guess: that you saw me, that I asked after her, that I'm all right. May not be back up that way this year, but… maybe come spring."

"I thought you loved her."

"I do, but… she's the kind o' person who, once she's set in her mind what she wants and how she thinks, she just won't have it any other way. Kinda had my belly full o' that right now."

They were out of earshot of camp now, and Tom stopped and turned to him. "All right, Cheyenne, what's really goin' on here? You haven't gone native on us, have you?"

From anyone else, that question would have deeply offended Cheyenne, but he knew what Tom meant. "Look, fellas, I'll have to tell you the whole story some other time, but the truth is… my father died."

"Your…" Tom's eyes went wide. "Oh. Oh, I… I'm sorry. What happened?"

"Heart attack. Guess you'd call it a broken heart."

"Well, I'm sure sorry for your loss."

Cheyenne ducked his head. "Thanks. Least I got to say goodbye."

Bronco frowned a little. "Ain't you got any brothers? Indian brothers, I mean?"

"They're all dead," Cheyenne admitted. "Killed by white landgrabbers."

Bronco winced.

"My father told me on his death bed he wanted me to bring the band out here. So that's what I'm doin'."

"Are you sure you're doin' the right thing, though?" Tom asked, genuinely concerned. "I mean, wouldn't it be better to take 'em to a fort to surrender?"

Cheyenne crossed his arms. "Tom, for someone who's lived in Indian Territory, you sure don't know much about the reservations. They're on the worst land, with an awful climate and diseases the people aren't used to. There's no game to hunt; they can't grow crops 'cause the soil's too poor. Half the time, the supplies the government promises never arrive, and when they do, they're often spoiled. Children are taken from their parents by force and sent to government boardin' schools where they're abused and forbidden to speak their own language. And every few years, some genius in Washington decides to steal another chunk of the land for settlers with a new treaty no one intends to honor. It'd be one thing if the government would agree to let the Northern Cheyenne stay in this area, but I'm positive that even if they gave me their sworn word, they'd still force 'em to move down to the Southern Cheyenne reservation."

"But… they'd be safe there, right? Safe from the Army?"

"Black Kettle warned the government repeatedly that he couldn't control some of the young warriors, but when the 7th Cavalry arrived at the Washita River, his village was on reservation land with white flags flying from the tent poles. Custer had 'em slaughtered anyway—old men, women, children. Does that sound safe to you?"

"Really?" Bronco challenged.

Cheyenne looked at him. "Ask Benteen. He was there. Told me he tried to spare one o' Black Kettle's sons, but the boy wouldn't stop shootin' at 'im—and I can't blame either one of 'em, seein' as how Black Kettle tried to run and Custer's men shot him and his wife in the back."

Tom looked sick.

"That's not how Custer tells it," said Bronco.

"That's the way it was," said Cheyenne, resisting the urge to slug him. Bronco was no friend of Custer's, either, and if he'd meant to call Cheyenne a liar, he'd have done so plainly. "We're not lookin' for trouble, Bronco. You let me get the band into the mountains, and I'll be back to the same ol' Cheyenne you've always known within the day. But I made my father a promise, and I aim to keep it, get these people out of a bad situation without takin' 'em into a worse one. They're the closest thing to a family I've ever known… I can't just let 'em starve."

Bronco tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Fair 'nuf."

Tom ran a hand over his mouth. "All right, Cheyenne. We won't mention you to Benteen; we'll tell 'im it's a friendly band, just passin' through. And we won't tell Miss Travers where we saw you."

Cheyenne smiled and relaxed. "Thanks, Tom."

Bronco nodded his agreement. "And if Benteen asks?"

"You can say it's White Cloud's band," Cheyenne stated, "or you can tell 'im my name is Grey Fox."

Bronco gave him another searching look, then nodded once and stuck out his hand. "Well, then, Grey Fox—I truly am sorry for your loss."

Cheyenne nodded back and shook his hand.

"Hope we see you again real soon," Tom added, shaking Cheyenne's hand in turn.

"Not too soon," Cheyenne cautioned with a wink.

Tom and Bronco both grinned at him, mounted their horses, and rode away. Cheyenne stayed where he was for a moment, his smile fading as he watched them go.

Puma came up behind him with just enough noise not to startle him. "Grey Fox? Is everything all right?"

Cheyenne turned to him. "Pass the word—we move at full dark."

Puma nodded and ran ahead of Cheyenne back into camp.

* Given the sheer number of canon crossover episodes, all the Warner Brothers Westerns from the late '50s and early '60s exist in the same universe. The Mavericks never appear in Cheyenne (although James Garner did guest star several times as other characters before Maverick began), but Bret and Bart both appear separately in the first season of Sugarfoot, and Cheyenne, Bronco, and Tom all appear in Maverick 4.2 "Hadley's Hunters." (Whether later crossovers like The Gambler Returns: The Luck of the Draw should be considered canon is a question I'll leave open.)