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His welcome was modest and dignified…
THOUGH it took a little while for Blue Thunder to recover from his talk with his cousin Greasy Lake, he eventually proceeded on home. His welcome was modest and dignified, as was appropriate. No one asked him a thing about his visit with the president, the cause of his long absence. To inquire about such a thing would have been presumptuous; and Blue Thunder himself made no mention of this great white man because to have done so would have seemed like bragging. An absence of comment about the honor he had been given seemed to be the best approach—it allowed Blue Thunder to settle gently back into the life of the tribe—to settle down slowly, as a great heron settled when it glided toward the surface of a pond where it might soon begin to catch many frogs.
In time Blue Thunder meant to catch a few frogs himself; that is, he meant to catch up on the gossip. A leader, after all, needed to know what was going on— and soon, much to his surprise, he discovered that he was expected to be the tribal leader once more. This was unusual—normally a challenger would have come along and attempted to lead the tribe, and, in fact, one had: a warrior named Cloud. But Cloud, being very hotheaded, had foolishly decided to fight some Shoshone on a day when it was rainy and muddy. Several warriors advised Cloud that this was not a good day to start a fight, since the Shoshone were better mounted than they were, but Cloud could not be made to see right reason. He rushed straight into battle, his horse slipped in the mud and fell, and Cloud was immediately hacked to death by the surprised Shoshone, who were astonished that any leader as badly mounted as Cloud would be so foolish as to fight them on a muddy, slippery day.
Cloud had been placed on his burial scaffold only a few hours before, leaving the tribe with several wise elders but no war chief to inspire the young braves. Blue Thunder was soon given to know that if he thought he still had the mettle of a war chief, then he was welcome to assume the task—he did assume it, once he had determined that there were no young rivals skulking around to become a source of trouble.
Fortunately all three of his wives were still alive— though a little subdued at first, his wives seemed glad enough to have him back, though his oldest wife, Quiet Calf, who had always been snippy with him, at once informed him that during his absence she had passed the age of mating—she no longer intended to be with him in the way of a wife with a man.
Blue Thunder knew better than to believe his sneaky old wife for a minute. No doubt she had no intention of being any use to him in the way of a wife with a man, but Quiet Calf had always been by far the most lustful of his three wives, and it seemed unlikely that her strong lusts had worn themselves out. Blue Thunder made no response to her big lie, but he resolved to watch her—very likely she had a boyfriend, and he meant to discover who it was. He had never allowed his wives to have boyfriends; it might be the way of the world but it was not his way, and it annoyed him that Quiet Calf would speak so deceptively to him on his first day back. If he happened to catch her with a lover he meant to beat her soundly with a good heavy piece of wood.
Except for this annoyance, which he had more or less expected, his homecoming went pleasantly enough. His wives killed two of the fattest dogs in the camp, in order to make a tasty stew. Blue Thunder sat in front of his lodge most of the day, watching the young warriors at sport: they were racing horses, wrestling, doing a little archery. Mainly they were showing off for the old chief who had returned and become the new chief. To Blue Thunder’s critical eye these youngsters did not seem to be especially well trained, but what bothered him most was that there were so few of them—only about ten, not much of a fighting force. He mentioned this to old Limping Wolf, a friend who happened to stop by, and Limping Wolf agreed.
“The Piegans aren’t making enough babies,” Limping Wolf said, before limping off.
That would have to change, Blue Thunder thought. A band with only ten warriors could not make much of a show. Even the ridiculous Shoshone had many more young warriors than that, and the Sioux were said to have hundreds, probably an exaggeration but worrisome nonetheless.
Just as Blue Thunder was about to allow his wives to feed him the tasty stew, who should return but Greasy Lake. There had been no sign of him all day, which had lulled many people into supposing that the old pest was gone.
“I thought you left!” Blue Thunder said, a little rudely.
“Oh no, I was just down by the creek,” Greasy Lake replied. As a guest it was necessary to give him the first bowl of stew. Codes of generosity must be observed, even if the guest was unwanted, a category Greasy Lake certainly fit into.
“I found a girl who needed a new axe,” Greasy Lake went on. “I offered her that axe that you gave me and she agreed to copulate with me, so that’s where I’ve been all day. She got a bargain—she’s already chopping wood with that axe.”
Greasy Lake ate so much of the stew that Blue Thunder’s wives thought they might have to kill a third dog, but finally he got his belly full and wandered off somewhere to sleep. Quiet Calf was indignant at the way the old man had hogged the stew.
“Is he going to live with us?” she asked. “If he is, I’m moving out.”
The remark merely confirmed Blue Thunder’s suspicion that the old hussy had a boyfriend, but it had been a long day and he was not up to a big domestic blowup, after walking so far.
“He is my cousin, what can I do?” he replied.
Quiet Calf finally shut up—but as Blue Thunder was preparing for bed, Limping Wolf and Red Rabbit came by and voiced some doubts about having Greasy Lake in the camp at all.
“I just got home,” Blue Thunder said. “Do I have to hear about this before I even sleep?” It had just come back to him that being a war chief was a never-ending job. People thought they were welcome to show up at all hours and have their complaints heard.
“I know he is your cousin but I think he brings bad luck,” Red Rabbit explained. “Who knows what will happen to us if we let him stay?”
“He’s just an old man whose skin happens to be different colors,” Blue Thunder replied. What else could he say?
“He stayed with a bunch of Shoshone for one night and in the morning, when he left, some Assiniboines fell on the camp and killed every single Shoshone—except the women, of course. If he stays here those Assiniboines might fall on us.”
“That doesn’t prove anything except that Assiniboines are mean, and we already knew that,” Limping Wolf objected.
“Does that mean you want him to stay?” Red Rabbit asked, annoyed by his friend’s sudden softening where Greasy Lake was concerned.
“Well, he is a prophet and a shaman,” Limping Wolf answered. “It’s not a bad idea to have a prophet around.”
“If he is such a good prophet, why didn’t he tell those Shoshone that the Assiniboines were about to kill them?” Red Rabbit wanted to know.
“I don’t think he liked the Shoshone,” Limping Wolf conjectured. “They probably didn’t feed him enough.”
“What has he ever predicted, can you tell me?” Blue Thunder asked. He was more than a little annoyed at being kept up on his first night home.
“Well, forest fires,” Limping Wolf offered. “He’s predicted several forest fires.”
“So what, forests are always catching on fire,” Red Rabbit protested. “I can predict forest fires myself.”
The two oldsters droned on, but Blue Thunder ceased to listen. He had his own solution to the problem of Greasy Lake. In the morning he would sneak off and see the girl who had the new axe; his plan was to advise her not to copulate with Greasy Lake anymore. If he had no one to copulate with Greasy Lake would soon go—he would look in other camps for women he might seduce.
Limping Wolf and Red Rabbit finally left and Blue Thunder prepared to turn in. His youngest wife, Wing, had been watching him with a certain look in her eye. Blue Thunder was considering indulging her in a bit of pleasure when a horrible thought occurred to him. What if Greasy Lake were Quiet Calf’s new boyfri
end? Such a thing would be irregular, but Greasy Lake had a big reputation with the women and irregular things did happen. Greasy Lake only followed rules or codes of conduct if they happened to work in his favor—such as arriving just in time to be served the first bowl of stew. In matters of carnal behavior he had always been quite shameless.
This thought disturbed Blue Thunder so much that he stretched out on his robes and did nothing about the look in Wing’s black eyes, inaction which left Wing keenly disappointed. Had she waited chastely all these years—though opportunities abounded—just to hear this old man snore?
“Go to sleep,” Blue Thunder told her. “This is what happens when Greasy Lake comes around. He tires everybody out.”
“What makes you think I’m tired?” Wing said, but by then it was too late. Blue Thunder was sound asleep.
51
“Oh, woe betide! Oh doom!”
OH, woe betide! Oh doom!” Mary Berrybender gasped, racing back to the cart.
“What is it, imp?” Tasmin asked, but Mary was, for a time, too out of breath to answer.
“It’s Cook—Papa shot her!” Mary gasped.
“Oh horror, not Cook!” Bobbety exclaimed. “What shall we do for vittles now?”
“In my opinion it was foolish of the prince of Wied to replenish His Lordship’s claret,” Father Geoffrin commented. “A bibulous nimrod is hardly likely to contribute to the health of the party.”
“Piet is attending Cook,” Mary said. “Perhaps the wound won’t be fatal.”
Cook had been inspecting some promising berry bushes, not fifty yards away. Tasmin and Buffum raced over and were relieved to see that she was sitting up—Piet Van Wely fanned her with his big floppy hat. Cook’s face wore a look of mild surprise, and there was a spot of blood on her skirt.
“Merely a flesh wound—hit her in the fatty part of the thigh … it’s not bleeding much,” Piet said, to reassure them. He bent to show Tasmin the wound, but there was the crack of a rifle and a second bullet whacked into Piet, knocking him directly into the lap of the wounded Cook.
“Oh no! Now the old assassin’s shot Piet!” Buffum cried. “Mary will be hugely distressed.”
“Didn’t hit me, hit my knapsack,” Piet assured them. “However, he might hit me, if he is allowed to keep shooting.”
“He won’t be allowed—Jim’s got him, and just in time,” Tasmin said, as Jim Snow ran up to the wagon. He pulled her father off the wagon seat and shook him like a terrier might shake a rat. Tom Fitzpatrick and Kit Carson were close behind Jim, though their assistance was by then little needed. Lord Berry-bender, after a severe shaking, was flung to the ground and left to consider his misdeeds. Tom and Kit, with the help of SeñOr Yanez, took all the guns out of the wagon, a precautionary action that caused Lord B., very red in the face, to struggle upright and begin a protest.
Monty giggled in his pouch as Tasmin hurried toward the wagon. Buffum and Piet were left to attend Cook, who was insisting that she ought to be allowed to pick berries.
“I’m sure they would be nice in a pie,” she said, in a voice that had lost some of its accustomed force. It was no particular surprise to Cook that Lord Berry-bender had shot her—relations between them had been chilly ever since she informed him that she might leave his service. Long experience with the señior Berrybenders had taught her that such inconstancy would not likely be forgotten, much less forgiven.
Mary fell in with Tasmin and the baby. When informed that her beloved Piet had been hit by a bullet, Mary looked grim.
“Let us puncture the old brute’s eardrums and leave him wandering deaf on the heath,” she suggested.
“Calm down, he only shot Piet in the knapsack,” Tasmin told her.
“I shan’t calm down, not at all!” Mary said. “We keep our bottles and entomological specimens in Piet’s knapsack—it will be a costly loss to science if they are damaged. Valuable bugs might be lost.”
“Hang science!” Tasmin replied. “I’m more concerned about Cook. There are plenty of bugs for you to capture, but there’s only one Cook and she’s now slightly wounded in the thigh.”
Jim, Kit, Tom, and the two Mediterraneans stood near the wagon, beside a formidable stack of guns.
“That’s the stuff, Jimmy—confiscate his guns before he kills us all,” Tasmin remarked. “What excuse did he have this time?”
Jim was calming, but the red of anger was not quite gone from his face, nor the flint from his eyes.
“He’s dead drunk—it doesn’t matter what he says,” Jim told her.
“He claims he shot at a stag,” Tom informed her. “But there’s no stag—if there had been, Jimmy or I would have shot it ourselves.”
Kit Carson made a fish face at Monty, winning a smile from him. Monty liked Kit but was less certain about his father, who never made fish faces.
“He shot Piet too, the old bastard,” Mary declared. “Piet was struck in the knapsack, the repository of valuable scientific specimens.”
“Did he, the damned scamp!” the old Broken Hand said to Mary—he had conceived a considerable fondness for the girl.
“Oh look, now he’s beating Milly—come help me restrain him, Kit,” Tasmin said, pointing.
Jim Snow looked as if he might go do the restraining himself, but before he could, Tasmin thrust Monty into his hands, an action that startled both child and father. Jim was getting a little better with Monty, and Monty a little more used to Jim, but fully harmonious relations had not yet developed. Tasmin thought it was high time—and past time—that they did. She thrust the two of them together whenever she could, hoping something would click.
“Let them puzzle it out—after all, they’re related,” she told Kit, as they strode off to the wagon. “Don’t you think it’s about time that they made friends?”
Kit hardly knew how to answer. He himself liked Monty, and Vicky Kennet’s baby, little Talley, and Coal’s wild mite, whom they called Little Charlie; but the notion of Jim Snow being friends with a baby wasn’t easy to imagine.
“Jim, he keeps busy,” he said, thinking his comment might strike a reasonable compromise.
It was, as usual, not the answer Tasmin wanted to hear.
“Why, yes—he hunts,” Tasmin replied—for every day, as the company plodded southward over the long plain, Jim and the Broken Hand hunted far ahead; they hunted for the table, usually with success. It was necessary that they be far ahead, Jim told her, to be out of hearing of the fusillade Lord Berrybender fired off every day, to slight effect when it came to securing wild provender. Lord B. had not the patience for exact marksmanship—shooting a lot, in his view, was more likely to be effective than aiming well. Also, it was more fun. By hewing to this principle, he scared away more game than he killed. Even the stolid buffalo, which he had once knocked over like wooden ducks, were keeping well clear of the wagon, from which Lord Berrybender issued wild bursts of gunfire aimed at very distant animals.
Tasmin knew Jim had to range ahead, but saw no reason why this fact should inhibit relations with his son. Evenings on the summer plains were long and soft; there was plenty of time, after Cook had worked her magic with spits and skillets and Dutch ovens, for Jim and Monty Snow to get acquainted.
“It doesn’t take long for us Berrybenders to develop our likings,” Tasmin said. “After all, Kit, I liked you the minute I met you. I do wish Jim and Monty would show more signs of liking each other.”
“Well, Monty don’t speak yet, and Jim ain’t much of a talker himself,” Kit replied.
“You can say that again,” Tasmin replied moodily, but before Kit could say anything more they reached the wagon and had to grapple with the problem of what to do with her father, who was still petulantly attempting to box Millicent’s ears.
“Father, if you don’t stop that nonsense this minute I’m going to have my husband come and give you an even worse shaking than the one you just received,” she began, grabbing his arm.
Lord B., wild with anger now, shook fr
ee of his daughter.
“No impertinence now!” he said, virtually frothing with rage. “Have that young lout fetch my guns at once—there’s a fine red stag about. I suppose I’m still free to shoot at stags.”
“There’s no stag, Father,” Tasmin told him. “Our Bobbety mistook a horse for an elk, which is bad enough, but you’ve mistaken Cook for a stag, which is a great deal worse.”
Before Lord Berrybender could reply, Milly jumped off the wagon seat and ran off, skirts flying and tears drying, to the cart, toward which Cook, assisted by Piet and Mary, was making slow progress.
“What’s all this—why did Constance run off— don’t like her running off … it was just a small little spat we were having,” Lord B. said.
“Millicent, you mean, Father … It was Milly who ran off, not Constance,” Tasmin replied.
The old lord, her father, looked at Tasmin with mild puzzlement. He was very drunk, his nose was peeling from repeated sunburns, his shirtfront was stained red from many drippings of claret, and his white hair was wild and tangled; but what startled Tasmin was his eyes: his look was not the look of a sane person.
“Who’s Millicent?” he asked. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Millicents.”
“Millicent’s our laundress—the large girl you were just slapping,” Tasmin reminded him, looking quickly at Kit. She felt a sudden apprehension: something was afoot with her father, something beyond the brusque rudeness and habitual selfishness to which they were all long accustomed.
“I really can’t fathom what you could be talking about, Tasmin,” he said. “Your mother and I were just having a small quarrel—not an easy state, matrimony. Stubborn, both of us, your mother and I. Constance won’t give way, and neither will I. Had many a fine row, over the years. Best just to leave Constance be. She’ll calm down in a bit.”
Tasmin looked at Kit again. Kit, who had always considered Lord Berrybender more or less crazy, just shrugged. What was there to say about such an old scamp?
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