By Cheryl
Chapter II
Buck drew two red tears below his left eye with the war paint. They were for his wife, Morning Dawn, and his infant son, Soaring Eagle. Buck had spent the last four years living as a Kiowa again and fighting the cavalry. It was no longer about color for Buck. It never really had been. He didn't see white fighting red as the Indians and soldiers did. He saw a proud people that had every right to the land they had always roamed, and a way of life that served them well. He saw another growing mass of people hungry for land, insistent that their way of life was the right way of life. He knew that Indian pony soldiers broke with their tribes and attacked innocent white settlers, so hungry for white blood that it mattered little to them if the whites were armed or not. Buck also knew that the cavalry would attack villages full of old men and women without warning and slaughter all that they saw, thinking the only good Indian was a dead Indian.
He had grown tired of the fighting and the blood. He wanted it to stop. But saw no way to do that. He saw no way that the whites and Indians could live in peace together. He wept for the white settler who often took the blunt of the young braves' anger. He wept for the black buffalo soldier, convinced by the white man back east that it was his job to fight the white's war against the red man. He wept for the Indians who would eventually be swept away in a sea of whites from the east. He wept for all of this and knew that nothing he did would change any of it. He wanted to stop it. To slit his wrists and be done with this world. But first he must avenge the death of his wife and child.
Buck had never meant to take an Indian wife. He had liked being alone. But he saw a brave beating a young Comanche captive one day. His white sense of morals had overtaken him and he had attacked the brave. It had lead to a fight over the young girl. And Buck had won. He did not want the prize he had won, but she would not let herself be set free.
Morning Dawn was a beautiful woman, devoted and loyal. She helped to keep him warm at night and fulfilled his manly desires. In time he had learned to care deeply for her, even if his heart still belonged to Clara. And Morning Dawn asked no more than that of him.
She had become a confidant. When Buck awakened from fitful dreams of the battles he had fought and longed for Clara's sweet embrace, it was Morning Dawn that held him to her chest. It was Morning Dawn that he told of his times in the white world, the Pony Express, Ike, Isaac his son and Clara. She kept any secret that he told her. He could bear his entire soul to this young Comanche girl that shared his bed. And all she asked in return was that he take care of her and treat her kindly. She helped him heal his wounded soul and he felt guilty that he couldn't even return her love.
Ike's spirit watching over him was one of the secrets that Buck had shared with Morning Dawn. Buck would have dreams in which he talked to Ike. And Ike could speak, and would tell him what to do, warn him of danger, and watch over him. Morning Dawn woke one morning scared. She had heard him talking in his sleep the night before in the white man's tongue, a language he never used anymore. He explained to her that he had been talking to the spirit of Ike his dear friend. And he had told her of Ike being his guardian angel.
Ike warned Buck of harm in his dreams. And Buck would tell the elders of the tribe about it. In the white world the idea of a dead comrade warning a member of the living world would be laughed at. But for the Kiowa it was not unthinkable that a rider from the great hunting grounds would whisper words of warning in his friend's ear while he slept. The old medicine man, Stands Bravely, called Ike, Running Buck's White Guardian. It had become tradition to ask Buck if his White Guardian had told him news of this or that.
Buck was accepted by the Kiowa as a good warrior and he was. He had killed many in battle. He was good with a gun, fast on a horse. His anger at the world that had created him to live between two worlds and caused him to choose one or the other, spilled over into his actions in battle. The Kiowas were impressed by his ability to fight. And they held great respect for this half-blood named Running Buck. And after awhile they forgot that he was half-white. As did Buck.
Like so many warriors before him, war had made Buck's heart grow cold. He no longer thought of the men that he killed. He didn't care what color they were. He didn't care what principles they fought for. He only killed. He hated the way he was able to so easily take the life of another man and think nothing of it. He loathed himself for doing it. He hated the world for causing him to fight in the first place. He cursed God and the Great Spirit for choosing this path for his life.
Little in life gave Buck joy anymore. Morning Dawn had borne him a son. And they had named him Soaring Eagle. He was a delightful child, always full of smiles and laughter. And he did bring Buck joy. But it was bittersweet. Looking into the eyes of his Indian son he wondered what his half-brother Isaac looked like. Soaring Eagle was an Indian, the white blood of Buck's father had been washed out of him. His eyes were brown and always smiling, his hair was dark brown and wavy, his skin was tanned, and a smile quickly graced his face. Buck wondered what his white son Isaac looked like. Did he look white just as Soaring Eagle looked red? If Buck looked into that face would he see that the red blood of his mother had been wiped clean of his first son, by Clara and the white world.
But now only sorrow existed to Buck. The braves had gone to hunt for the Cavalry. While they were gone the Cavalry had attacked the village. Killing all the women, children and old men that they saw. Buck wondered if they had waited for the braves to leave, knowing that they're catch would be easier if there were no warriors in the camp to defend it. When the braves returned they found the camp burned, most of the women and children dead. Morning Dawn and Soaring Eagle were among them.
The braves were upset by the attack. They swore that they would avenge the dead. Attack the white fort and kill the soldiers that did this. Red Bear told the young braves that such a move would be useless. It would only result in the death of the braves and more attacks. Red Bear had fought too long and wanted peace. Buck had stood with Red Bear on the matter. But he was not going to let the death of his Indian family go unavenged. He was going to attack the soldiers, but by himself.
Buck didn't want to live in the red world anymore. There was nothing there for him but blood and death. He didn't want to return to the white world either. He saw no way to live in between. He didn't want to live in the world at all anymore. Death would be a blessing. He would be with Clara, Ike, Noah, Morning Dawn and once again see the smiling face of Soaring Eagle. Maybe death was were he belonged. He knew that if he went to the fort alone he would not last long. He would take the lives of a few soldiers though before a gunshot would end his. And that was what he planed to do to avenge the death of his Indian wife and child.
Buck took his fingers covered them with the white and red paint. He smeared the paint on his face, up into his wild hair. He got up from the fire. Went to the burned remains of his teepee. He gathered what little things he needed. He strapped the gun belt from his Pony Express days onto his waist. Made sure that the locket with Clara's picture and wedding ring was fastened around his neck. He took the bits of hair that he had taken from Morning Dawn and Soaring Eagle, and placed it in his medicine pouch. And finally he put on his war shirt. It told the tale of the battles he had fought in. Bloody handprints graced it symbolizing the men he had killed in battle. Scalps of white, Indians and blacks hung from it.
As Buck approached his horse to leave he saw Red Bear. Red Bear knew what Buck intended to do. He was not going to stop him.
"Will you be back, Running Buck?" Red Bear asked Buck in the Kiowa tongue.
"No," Buck answered also speaking in Kiowa, "But I will not fight against you, you have my word on that brother." And then Buck mounted his horse and rode off.
Chapter III
Buck entered the army fort in the dead of night. He moved with skill and agility, his Indian blood coursing through his veins. He approached a solider on guard duty. He crept up behind him. Covered the soldier's mouth quickly with his right hand. Bent his head back, and sliced open the soldier's throat with the knife in his left hand. The blood flowed thick and warm from the open wound. The soldier fell silently to the ground, dead. Buck had killed him in cold blood. But his heart and soul were too cold to care. Buck left the dead soldier and moved silently farther into the fort. He had another soldier's life to take before he took his own.
The soldiers had caught an Indian sneaking around inside the fort. They had also found a dead soldier, his throat had been slit, most likely by the captured Indian. The excitement had awakened Cody. Cody was serving as the head scout for the cavalry stationed at the fort. He went outside to find two soldiers beating the captured Indian brave. They were sure that they were more braves outside and wanted the Indian to tell them where.
Cody saw one of the soldiers hit the captive hard in the stomach while the other soldier held him. The Indian looked up at the soldier, spit in his face and yelled angry Indian words at him. Cody saw all of this from a distance in the night. He couldn't make out faces. But the angry words of the captured Indian raised his attention. It sounded familiar, although he didn't know from where.
The soldier yelled curses back at the Indian and hit him again. Cody began to walk closer to the scene for a better look. He noticed that the captive had a gun belt on his waist. It looked familiar. And then it hit Cody who the Indian was. It was Buck.
"Stop!" Cody yelled at the two soldiers. They turned from the captive to look at him. Cody saw that they had no intentions of stopping. "That's on order privates." Cody said with authority.
The soldiers stopped what they were doing. Backed out from the beaten Indian. "Sure thing, Colonel," one of them commented, disgusted at Cody for ending their fun.
Buck lay crumpled on the ground, glad the beating had ended, not sure why it had. He still had a soldier to kill to avenge Morning Dawn. But he no longer had the energy in him to do it. All he wanted was death. It still hadn't come.
Cody looked at the body of his dear friend. He hoped that it hadn't been Buck that had killed that guard. But at this moment he really didn't care. The last time he had seen Buck was six years ago at his wedding. Cody could see that the years certainly hadn't been easy on his old friend. Cody bent down beside Buck and softly asked, "Buck?"
Buck heard his white name. Recognized the voice. Looked up into the face that had spoke it. His eyes met the blue eyes of his old friend Cody, his pale face, long golden hair. A wave of nausea washed over him. It was like seeing a ghost of the world he had left so long ago, a world that in his mind had been long dead. No! Buck's thoughts yelled in his mind. He didn't want to return to this world. He wanted to be dead. Why wouldn't death take him?
Cody saw Buck look up at him with cold brown eyes. Knew Buck recognized him. Cody saw the pain and hurt in those eyes. He wondered what hardships the world had given his friend to make his eyes look so sad.
And then Cody saw the whole man before him. If he didn't already know it he would never have guessed the man before him carried any white blood. Buck's face was bloody from the beating and covered with white and red war paint. His long hair was wild and tangled. Cody noticed the war shirt Buck wore. Saw the bloody handprints symbolizing the men Buck had single handedly killed in battle. Saw the scalps, and recognized the light hair of white men. Cody wondered if he really knew this man before him. And realized that him and Buck were on separate sides of this war. He wondered if the fighting had completely killed the Buck that Cody had known so many years ago in the Pony Express.
Buck saw Cody look him over. To a white man he must be a sight. He saw the hatred and fear cross Cody's face. And he cared little what his old friend thought of him.
Cody knelt down by Buck and asked softly so the two on-looking soldiers that had beaten Buck earlier could not hear. "Buck, are there others?"
Buck looked up at Cody with cold eyes that bore a hole straight through to Cody's soul. "I came alone, no one followed," Buck answered softly in English that was rough from disuse.
"And the dead soldier?" Cody whispered even softer. Knowing his friend would answer him. Not wanting anyone else to hear the answer.
"He died by my hands," Buck whispered back.
Cody's heart sank. He knew that Buck had killed the guard in cold blood. He wondered what his reason was. He wondered how his friend could have become a cold-blooded murderer. Cody knew he should turn Buck in. But they would hang him. And Cody wished from the bottom of his heart that the man before him still carried the goodness his old friend Buck had possessed. If that was the case he was going to do all he could to make sure Buck lived.
"Don't worry, Buck. I'll take care of it," Cody said to reassure his friend that no harm would befall him.
Buck looked at Cody. But I don't want to live! Buck yelled in his head, although he said no words aloud. I want to die. And with that thought the effects of the beating, exhaustion and grief overtook him and Buck passed out.
TO BE CONTINUED... Chapter IV
Copyright 1998-This work is not to be reproduced without the permission of the author
The Way Station
Campfire Tales
