The Ties That Bind

Buck stormed out of the jailhouse and into the street. He had to go away—far away—somewhere thought couldn’t find him—where memory would forget his name.

His hands shook as he anxiously ran his fingers through his hair. No. Its not him! he told himself. The words echoed in his mind like a haunting chant. His legs began to falter. He was able to stumble behind the jail before they gave out completely and he slid to the ground. He drew his legs to his chest. His head fell to his knees.

Finally, his mind grew quiet—dark and blank. As the welcome silence settled upon him, Buck felt the warmth of a soft new breeze brush past his face. Calmly, persistently, it called to him. Its soothing whisper possessed the key to unlock a door that Buck, for half his life, had desperately tried to forget existed. He begged to be left alone, but as the breeze washed over his trembling spirit, he knew he was powerless to fight it.

Slowly, the door opened. . .and the painful light of memory flooded his entire being.

"Running Buck? Where are you?"

The boy crouched tighter behind Chief White Horse’s tipi as he heard his mother’s voice draw near and then pass away as she sought in vain for her son.

Running Buck lay on the ground. Silently, he lifted a flap of the tipi. Through the small crack, he could see the great warriors gathered for a conference. He longed to be one of them. A flash of jealousy seared through him as he saw his brother Red Bear sitting among them. He thought bitterly of how his brother was allowed such an honor while he must stay outside with the women and children. Running Buck wasn’t a child. He had lived through eight summers and was certainly ready to become a great warrior. He was sure he had much stronger medicine than Red Bear. People would sing songs about Running Buck!

As he listened to the voices drifting from the tipi, Running Buck discovered, to his disappointment, that war was not the topic of conversation.

"Today, the white men come to speak peace," Chief White Horse announced after the pipe had been passed full circle. "This is good."

Several warriors mumbled their disagreement. Then Strength of Blue Ponies raised his voice. "I respect Chief White Horse. He is a wise and powerful leader. Yet, I do not believe that the white men can want peace. They speak with two tongues. They are a dirty and rude people and they posses bad medicine—they drive the buffalo away."

Wolf Lying Down nodded in agreement. "The white men have no respect for our lands. We fight bravely for our hunting grounds only to have them desecrated by white settlers."

Kills With A Gun stood up. "I understand your grievances and your reservations about the white men. Yes, some of them are disrespectful—but not all. You know well that before I became Kills With A Gun, I was a white man called ‘Jake Michaels’, and yet

you accepted me."

The others pondered this. It was true. Kills With A Gun had proven himself, even as a white man, to be a strong and fearless warrior as well as a great hunter.

"You must believe me," he continued, "when I say that the white men can be a great ally to the Kiowa. They have many guns that can make one warrior seem like two. They can help us to protect our lands against invading tribes." Kills With A Gun sat down. Running Buck smiled with pride to think of how powerful his father’s words were among the warriors.

White Horse gathered all of his men’s comments into his heart. He looked at each one of them in turn before he began. "You all speak with wise tongues. I am honored to have such warriors." He paused for a moment. "Our last meeting with the white men was promising. Kills With A Gun has been an invaluable mediator for us. I believe what he says is true. It is better to make peace with the whites. Wolf Lying Down, Big Bow and Red Bear will go with Kills With A Gun to greet the white men again today. When you bring them to the village, I will speak with them. That is all I have to say."

With that, the meeting ended. Running Buck scrambled to his feet as the men exited the tipi.

"Father!" he called in English as Kills With A Gun walked out. The white man smiled weakly at his son. "Let me go be great warrior!" Running Buck begged.

"There you are!" Rising Dawn cried out in Kiowa from a few yards away. "Where have you been, Running Buck?" The boy turned toward her as she hurried over. He shrugged. He knew he was in trouble for ignoring her earlier.

Kills With A Gun placed a firm hand on Running Buck’s shoulder. "He wants to be a warrior," he explained to his wife.

Rising Dawn smiled. "Oh, is that so?"

Running Buck noticed that the warriors were preparing to make their visit. Red Bear looked very heroic atop his horse—though Running Buck knew he’d look even more powerful if he were able to go.

Kills With A Gun knelt down and looked closely at his son. Running Buck wished his eyes were green like his father’s. "Running Buck, you must stay here. We need brave warriors to protect the women and children."

Rising Dawn stepped up behind her husband and stroked his shoulders. Kills With A Gun rose and turned toward her. His face was solemn. Running Buck believed his father was gathering together all of his courage to meet the white men.

"My husband, take this with you." Rising Dawn untied her necklace and secured it around his neck. "It has great medicine. It will protect you."

Running Buck admired the glowing golden stone as it shone in the sun. The intricate beadwork held the jewel in place with loving hands.

Rising Dawn reached up to touch her husband’s face, but he turned suddenly away. "I must go now," he said.

Running Buck saw how his father mounted his horse and sat tall with pride. The four warriors then headed out to meet the white settlers who were waiting for them near a grove of trees not far from the village.

Wolf Lying Down and Kills With A Gun approached the white men. There were about a dozen whites, all together. Running Buck, who’d escaped from his mother once more, hid behind one of the nearby trees and watched with rapt interest as the men began to speak.

"Tell them we are honored that they have come to meet us today," Wolf Lying Down said.

Kills With A Gun nodded toward one of the white men—a shaggy, long-haired fellow with a thick jaw. "They don’t suspect a thing," he said in English.

"Good," the white man replied. "Its about time we finish them off."

Kills With A Gun turned to Wolf Lying Down. "He says he is hopeful that we will come to a good peace today," he explained in Kiowa.

What was happening? Running Buck knew some English, and though his grasp of the language was limited, he understood enough to realize that his father was not translating properly.

Wolf Lying Down spoke again. "Tell them that our Chief wishes to speak with them. We will lead them back to the village now."

"How much do I get for this job?" Kills With A Gun asked flatly.

"Fifty dollars for leadin’ us to ‘em," the shaggy man answered. "Just meet us in Deadwood after its all over and you’ll get your money."

Kills With A Gun eyed Wolf Lying Down. "He says they are ready, and they thank you for meeting them." His mouth twisted up into a wicked grin. "He also says he hopes that the spirits are with you today—for your sake."

Wolf Lying Down searched his white friend’s eyes in confusion. Suddenly, the man with the thick jaw drew his gun.

Running Buck stumbled back in panic. The gunshot ripped through the skies as Wolf Lying Down fell to the ground. Red Bear and Big Bow struggled for their arrows, but they were no match against a dozen white men with guns blazing. The two retreated back to the village—the intruders hot on their tales.

Running Buck stared, dumbstruck, at his father. Why wasn’t he fighting the white men? Why didn’t he defend his people? The whites rushed past Kills With A Gun and down into the village. Running Buck could hear women and children screaming. Each gunshot pierced his own heart again and again as he saw his father gallop away without looking back.

A sudden realization shook him. Rising Dawn! He needed to protect her. Running Buck found his legs and raced back to the village. He felt the bullets fly past him as he entered the camp. The white men had caught them all completely off guard. No one was prepared to fight. Kills With A Gun was the only warrior who had a rifle.

"Mother!" Running Buck cried as he spotted the woman frantically calling his name.

"EEAH!" Her blood-curdling scream sliced through his ears. He saw the blood gush from her mouth as the bullet penetrated her back. Running Buck froze as Rising Dawn crumpled to the ground only a few feet before him. He heard the white men laughing. He felt the black smoke from the burning tipis choke his throat. His mind had only one thought. He had to live. He must avenge his mother’s murder.

Running Buck fell to the ground near two other young boys who had been shot. He lay perfectly still. Even when he began to taste the blood of his playmates as it pooled up around him, he did not move. He heard the war cries of the Kiowa men mingled with the wailing of children and the moans of the dying.

For many minutes, Running Buck waited. Slowly, silence crept into the village. Drenched in blood, Running Buck began to shiver against his will. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Why couldn’t he stop shaking? Then he heard Red Bear’s voice.

"Wake up, my brother. It is over now."

He felt a hand grip his shoulder.

Buck gasped as his head flew back. The afternoon sun pierced his eyes. For a moment, he sat blinded with confusion. Then he saw Teaspoon standing before him.

The Marshal strode down the main street, his old heart rattling in frustration. As he searched through the town, his mind began laying the foundation of a great lecture against speaking rudely to special guests. That boy is gonna listen to each and every word I say, repeat it all back to me verbatim, wash his mouth out with soap and HUMBLY apologize for his attitude, he thought hotly. Though he loved every one of his riders, he firmly believed that there was no excuse for bad manners.

He rounded the corner behind the blacksmith’s sure of his mission. He might not always be able to keep his boys out of mischief, but he had the ability to make sure they knew when they’d done something wrong and force them to take responsibility for their actions. Under his wise guidance, those boys were becoming men.

Then he saw Buck. He sat with his knees to his chest, his head in his hands. Pity caught the Marshal firmly by the throat as he considered how small and child-like Buck looked sitting there alone. Word by word, his great speech broke apart and disappeared into the breeze.

As he approached Buck, he noticed, for the first time, just how thin he’d become since Ike’s death. He saw how Buck’s grimy hands twitched as he grasped at his filthy hair. What Buck really needed wasn’t a lecture but a hot bath and a good meal.

Teaspoon placed a hand on his shoulder. Buck’s head flew back—his eyes wide with surprise. At first, he didn’t seem to know where he was. But, as he found his breath, Buck squinted up at the Marshal and revealed the shadow of a smile.

"You all right?" Teaspoon asked.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Just didn’t get much sleep last night."

Teaspoon nodded. Though he’d decided against the lecture, he still felt an apology was in order. "You mind tellin’ me just what possessed you to make fools of the both of us in front of Jake?"

Buck’s gaze fell to the ground.

"Jake Michaels is a good friend of mine and I don’t take kindly to it when my good friends are insulted," Teaspoon explained firmly.

Buck gritted his teeth as Rattlesnake Canyon appeared in his imagination. He saw Teaspoon on his knees. . .that shadowed figure cocking his gun—aiming with pitiless accuracy for the Marshal’s head. . .

"You listenin’ to me, son?" Teaspoon inquired.

Buck’s nerves, already taut as fiddle strings, finally snapped. He rose to his feet and stared the Marshal straight in the eye. "I’m not your son," he stated coldly. "And there’s no way in hell you’re gonna get me to apologize to that son of a bitch."

Teaspoon couldn’t believe his ears. He felt as if he’d been whacked in the stomach. He felt sure that Buck’s grief over Ike had completely robbed him of his common sense.

However, the Marshal wasn’t going to let him get away with that kind of talk. He felt the frustration mound up in his gut. He was prepared to drag Buck’s stubborn butt back inside the jail by force if he had to. He drew a deep breath, struggling for some composure. But he was startled by a tiny voice that came from some far off corner of his mind. Maybe Buck has a legitimate reason for his anger, the voice whispered. For a split second, he considered it. But he soon swatted the idea away before it had any chance to settle on his conscience. Jake couldn’t have done anything to hurt Buck, he reasoned. Jake’s a good, honest man.

Buck’s heart pounded in his ears. No matter how hard he tried to force it away, the vision of the canyon refused to leave him alone. He couldn’t understand why it continued to invade his thoughts. Nothing had happened to Teaspoon. Buck had come back from the canyon to find the Marshal alive and well. Maybe that "vision" was just a bad dream. Kid was probably right. You could believe anything on an empty stomach—including vanishing women and crazy dreams. The thought reassured him somewhat. But just as his mind began to relax, his body went numb. Hickock’s pale face materialized before him. His eyes penetrated Buck to his depths. Why didn’t you help us? they cried.

How could he help them? He could tell by the glint in his eye, that Teaspoon was in no mood for fantastic tales. And he wasn’t about to tell the law man just who Michaels really was in relation to himself. Michaels would just deny it—and considering the way Teaspoon was looking at him now, Buck was pretty sure that Teaspoon would choose his friend’s truth over his own. Besides, he’d already told everyone that his mother had been raped. Why should anyone believe the truth? But Buck had to warn Teaspoon about Michaels somehow—in a way the Marshal might believe.

"Teaspoon," Buck swallowed hard, "Jake Michaels is an enemy to the Kiowa."

Teaspoon betrayed a look of concern. "How’s that?"

Buck paused a moment to shape his words before he began. "Some time ago, after I’d left the Kiowa, my tribe was betrayed by a white fur trader called Jake Michaels. He led them into a trap. He’d acted as a friend and interpreter for them and when he’d gained their acceptance, he led whites to the village where the women and children were massacred."

A tremor of apprehension shook down Teaspoon’s spine. He knew that Buck wouldn’t lie about such an atrocity—done to his own people. Yet, he refused to believe that his good friend was capable of such an act. "Jake’s never been anywhere near the Kiowa. He mostly traded with the Sioux," he answered firmly. " ‘Sides, there must be a thousand ‘Jake Michaels’ out here tradin’ with the Indians. It couldn’t have been him."

"My brother told me what happened. He gave me a description of the man," Buck replied without hesitation, "so that no more Kiowa would be tricked into death by him."

"Well, I don’t see no proof that this is the same man. You ain’t never seen him, and descriptions only go so far, Buck."

"How many times has he lied to you, Teaspoon?" Buck asked suddenly, his voice rising with emotion. "He told you that necklace was Sioux. Its not. Its Kiowa. Any trader who knew the tribes he traded with would know that much."

Teaspoon knew that Buck thoroughly believed that Jake was this Kiowa enemy—and a part of him felt sorry enough for Buck to want to believe it, too. But, as he recalled the many times Jake had saved his life back in Deadwood, he felt sure he owed it to Jake to at least stand up for his honor. Buck was in mourning, that was all. "Buck, I understand that you’re tired and hungry, and I know you got reasons to be angry. Ike’s death hit us all pretty hard. . ."

"This isn’t about Ike!" Buck interjected vehemently. "Its about a man who murdered innocent women and children. A man who’s never paid for his crime!"

"A man that ain’t Michaels," Teaspoon finished from between clenched teeth. "Now its time fer you to say yer sorry."

"Never."

"Is that all you got to say?" Teaspoon asked as Buck looked away. "Then I suggest you leave," Teaspoon said without emotion. "Looks to me like you need some time to cool off before you come to yer senses."

Buck glanced up at the sky. The sun flared above them, hot and heavy. Soon, it would be evening. He felt a weak breeze waft past his face. He now knew that Jake Michaels had conned his way right to the center of Teaspoon’s heart—just as he’d done to the Kiowa years before—blinding the Marshal to the truth about his evil nature. It was a truth Buck hardly wanted to believe, himself.

"Don’t bother looking for me tonight," Buck stated firmly. He turned away from Teaspoon and began to head back to the center of town. He had to find his horse and get out of Rock Creek. An old longing tugged at his heart. He needed to see his brother, Red Bear.

"I won’t," Teaspoon answered flatly. For the first time since he’d met him, Teaspoon was glad to see Buck go.

On to Chapter Fifteen

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