The Year the Cloud Fell

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  Now, the chill was long gone. The sun was approaching the top of the sky and the day had grown hot as they kept their vigil on the rock. Blue Shell Woman lay beside him, sleeping on her back in the sunlight. Mouse Road sat at the base of the stone, braiding grass stems into intricate plaits. He looked back down toward their whistlers cropping at the abundant grass. All he had to do was run over there and grab one of them. He could be mounted and gone in moments. Pursuit, if it came, would be miles behind him.

  Mouse Road motioned for him to get back down out of sight as she crept back up onto the rock. She pointed to the eastern limit of their view. There, coming from the southeast, was the long dark line of the expected herd.

  The ragged edge of the herd approached slowly but inexorably as the buffalo ambled along the traditional route toward their northern pastures. First came a handful of bulls, one and two year-olds, still too young to go out on their own. They plodded through the grass, stopping now and again for a mouthful before continuing on in advance of the main body of the herd. Their complaints and grumblings filled the air with a sound like groaning trees.

  As the bulls came within a mile of the line of hidden walkers, George could see the rest of the herd. These were mature beasts, huge creatures with high, humped shoulders taller than a man, a ton or more of danger on the hoof. Nearly all of them were females, but a few ancient bulls paced along on the fringes of the herd. Amid the cows were all of the season’s calves, small spindly creatures dwarfed by the size of their relations. More bulls, younger ones again, straggled behind. The bulls of mating age did not travel with the main body but would arrive later in the year, in rutting season.

  The bison progressed in this loose formation, eating as they strolled through the landscape. Their winter coats hung on them like tattered clothes that had been torn through, worn out, and patched in a hundred places. Strips of hair dangled from their flanks and shoulders, swinging with their slow steps like moth-eaten scarves.

  The young bulls approached the hidden line of hunters, walking calmly ahead across the plain. George, concentrating on the nearest hunter, was sure that the lead bulls had walked right past. In that moment, the hunter struck.

  On strong rear legs the walker lunged up from its shallow lair. It lunged at the nearest bull. Reaching him in one great stride, it seized him just behind the massive head. It jerked its prey twice and George heard the bull’s cry of panic cut short. All along the line they struck, riders hanging on to their ropes, and four score buffalo went down. The rest of the herd stood stunned for a heartbeat, then started to run.

  The rider shot a marking arrow into the fallen buffalo and, at his command, the walker dropped its kill and ran after another. The others did the same.

  The air was filled with the cries of startled bison and the thunder of hooves. Then another sound shimmered through the air. A multitude of voices rose from the northeast.

  Mouse Road stood up, pointing and shouting with excitement. From around the rise on which George and the girls had rested rode hundreds of riders on whistler-back. From the far side of the herd came that many again plus hundreds more. The herd was flanked and cut off. The whistlers began to circle. The bison created circles of their own, calves in the center surrounded by a ring of massive adults. The riders charged the defensive groups. When they drew a defender into chasing them, then the riders turned and shot. Arrows hit their marks with unbelievable accuracy. George saw a huge cow dropped by a single shot from a hundred yards. Rifle shots snapped in the air above the plain, but they were few, as most hunters rejected these imported weapons in favor of their own short, but powerful and accurate bows.

  The riders harried them, the walkers stormed them. Soon the herd abandoned all defense and simply fled. Then the hunt began in earnest.

  Riders used lances and arrows to drop their quarry. Fleeing bulls turned to charge their attackers. Most failed but a few succeeded and whistlers and riders went down under rampaging hooves.

  The two girls stood arm in arm, pointing and shouting, all need for stealth long gone. The scene was brutal for both man and beast, but neither the carnage nor the injuries on the field dampened their exuberance. They cheered and waved and clapped their hands. Blue Shell Woman beckoned to George. She pointed into the dusty fray and, in thickly accented French, said, “My brother.”

  George followed her pointing hand and finally spied the tall Indian with the shorn right temple and the white feather in his hair.

  Storm Arriving was in the thick of it. Dust filled his nose and the taste of metal filled his mouth. He crouched over his whistler’s back, his heels pressed in close to his mount’s spine and his knees pressing outward beneath the first rope to keep it tight. He fitted another arrow to his bow and guided his course with a dig of his left toe. The bull was big but with the speed of youth. It galloped away and to the left, wanting distance from its pursuer but not from the herd.

  “Nóheto,” he shouted, and his mount put on more speed to overtake the bull. Storm Arriving moved them even with their target, but not close.

  The bull saw the threat approaching along his right flank. He put his head down.

  That was the move that Storm Arriving had been awaiting. He aimed as the bull turned to charge and let fly. The arrow struck, but high—a wound but not a kill. He dug in with his left foot and they turned sharply inside the arc of the bull’s attack. The move took them past the bull, and they turned to pursue once more. They came up on his left side this time. Storm Arriving took out another arrow and sang a song to the spirits, asking for this arrow to strike true. He pulled and aimed. The bull halted just as the arrow flew and the shot went wide and pierced his hump above the shoulder. Then the buffalo headed into the thick of the herd.

  Storm Arriving followed, weaving between riders and buffalo alike. The bull carried two of his arrows and the wounds, while not mortal, would weaken him and make him easy prey to wolves.

  Please, he prayed to the bull as he put another arrow to his bow. Please.

  They rode through the herd and beyond it, back out into the open. The bull’s tongue hung down as he panted for breath. The whistler fluted, sensing the beast’s fatigue. Storm Arriving gave a nudge to his mount and they sped to challenge the bull again, but the bull halted just as they came close, forcing them to turn away to avoid the thrust of his powerful head and sharp, black-tipped horns.

  When Storm Arriving came around for another pass, he saw that the bull had stopped. He stood, facing them, his breath coming on hard. One arrow stuck out of his hump, and the other was buried to the feathers in his side. He pulled at the grass and shook his huge frame. Dust lifted from him in a cloud.

  Storm Arriving knew that this was the moment. This was the moment when the bull was trying to decide. It was a hard decision to make.

  “My friend,” Storm Arriving said to the buffalo. The bull looked at him, his brown eyes steady and clear. “I know that you feel the pain in your side where my arrows have hit you. I know you feel the blood running down your side. I know too that you still feel the power of life within you and the desire to run forever on the plain. You have run well and fought bravely, my friend, and I ask you to give me your life, so that I might feed my family.”

  The bull blinked and shifted his feet. Then he shook himself again and turned his side toward Storm Arriving.

  Storm Arriving raised his bow and pulled back on the string.

  “Thank you, my brother,” he said.

  The arrow flashed between them, flying from hunter to hunted like a thought. It struck the bull in the side, just behind the foreleg and under the slope of his shoulder. It drove deep and punctured his heart. The bull crumpled, his legs suddenly dead, and fell heavily onto the grass.

  Storm Arriving sang the song of thanks to the spirit of the buffalo, for it was a great gift the bull had given. Then he turned and rode back toward the herd.

  He worked hard, but quickly, and took two more kills. Within three hands of time it was over and he sat o
n his panting whistler, the scent of blood in his nose, and the sunlight pressing the sweat from his skin.

  The hunters had taken what they needed from the huge herd and hundreds of carcasses littered the landscape. The rest of the herd, ten times ten thousand strong, had veered to the south and could still be seen like a dark stain on the green and gold of the plain. A few riders—the inexperienced and the unlucky—still harried the trailing edge of the herd. Most of the tribe, however, was now gathering at the site of the hunt. Families gathered around their kills and sang their thanks to the departing spirits for their sacrifices.

  Here and there across the field of the hunt, walkers took their prizes, finally allowed by their riders to feast on one of their kills. They ate with violence, holding the body down with a taloned foot and ripping off joints and strips of flesh to be swallowed whole, bones and all.

  From up on the ridge he heard his sisters’ voices. Blue Shell Woman and Mouse Road ran down the slope toward him. Behind the girls came One Who Flies, leading the other whistlers. Picking Bones Woman rode in from the west, bringing two whistlers with travoise.

  They were all smiles as One Who Flies approached.

  “Three!” Storm Arriving said, jubilant. “Did you see?”

  One Who Flies nodded. “It was very impressive,” he said. “I have never seen such a hunt.”

  “Ah, the spirits favored me today.” He turned as others came to congratulate him. Men old and young, themselves fresh from their own kills, clasped his wrist and greeted him with joy. Big Nose and Laughs like a Woman stood nearby. Laughs like a Woman came up to him, a frown on his face. He looked Storm Arriving up and down, made a sound of disgust, and walked off. The gathered men laughed and began a new round of congratulation. They were all speaking at once until Big Nose began to sing. They all joined, singing the high-pitched tune through grins that did not pause for breath.

  Brothers:

  When we fight,

  We all

  Must stay together.

  No Kit Fox

  Will run away!

  Storm Arriving’s brother soldiers heaped him with praise. No one had taken three in a day in many years.

  “It is a good sign,” Big Nose said. “First we find One Who Flies, and now this. These are good signs for the People.”

  Storm Arriving could not contain the joy and pride that filled his breast. His gratitude over his good fortune spilled out in grins and laughter. “I believe so, too,” he said, and then spoke to all the friends and fellow Kit Foxes that had gathered.

  “I have had great fortune today, and I intend to share it with the People. One of my kills I give to Antelope Leaping Woman, who lost her husband last winter, and to Trees Under Snow, for he is old and has no family to provide for him. A second one I give, this one to those of you, my brother Kit Foxes, who made no kill today. Your families shall eat tonight of my good fortune.”

  The men around him grinned and congratulated him on his luck and generosity.

  “You give too much,” his mother said with a poke to his ribs. “One would have been plenty. You have three mouths to feed, you remember?”

  “Would my father have given only one?”

  Picking Bones Woman waved a hand. “He gave away too much as well. I think he did it just to annoy me. The both of you—you would starve us with your generosity.”

  He chuckled at her crabbing. “Don’t worry, Mother. We won’t starve. Besides, we may soon have one more provider in our family.” He pointed to Blue Shell Woman.

  Standing Elk was very close to her, speaking softly but very quickly. He had done well in the hunt and had brought down a bull of his own. Blue Shell Woman was silent. She stared at her toes and showed no interest as he spoke, but her lips played tug-the-rope with a smile. She glanced up and caught sight of her mother and brother. The blood rushed to her cheeks like a fire through grass in late summer.

  “Perhaps,” Picking Bones Woman said. “As long as you do not put him off again.”

  “I won’t. This last year has made a great change in Standing Elk. He has seen battle twice and has killed one of the Crow People. He has learned much and now is more man than boy. No, if he comes, I will not dissuade him.”

  “And One Who Flies?” the old woman asked. Their guest stood nearby, listening to Big Nose weave the tale of his first buffalo hunt.

  “I do not worry about him, anymore. Blue Shell Woman is fascinated with him and takes any excuse to be near him, but One Who Flies has always treated her as an other-father would. Besides, One Who Flies does not make her blush.” He waved at his sister and she spun to hide the fire in her cheeks. Standing Elk glanced their way and grinned, a little embarrassed himself at having been caught courting.

  Storm Arriving clapped his hands and motioned to his sisters. “Come. The day is waning. Time to work. Blue Shell Woman, you will help your mother. Mouse Road, I want you to go prepare the racks and fetch the water we will need.” He turned to One Who Flies and, in the Trader’s tongue, told him, “I need you to take Mouse Road back to camp. She will make things ready. We will be along shortly with the first of the day’s kill.”

  “As you wish,” the vé’ho’e said.

  Mouse Road sat behind and held on to George’s waist as they rode the whistler back to camp. He had taken off his coat and tucked it under the first rope. Now the wind of their passage billowed his shirt with a welcome coolness. Behind him, Mouse Road kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation.

  “Ota’tavehexovona’e, náhéméhotâtse. Xaomemehe’e, náhevése’enôtse. Náháéána. Námésêhétáno. Néháéána?”

  It did not seem to matter that he did not understand her. Mouse Road was about the same age as Maria, his youngest sister, and she was just as talkative. It comforted him to interact with her, even in this unintelligible manner. He had not seen his own sisters in over a year due to his duties for the military, and Mouse Road proved to be a consoling stand-in.

  She continued talking and he felt sure that she would have kept on even without his participation, but he did not want her to feel ignored. Every now and again he would say “I see,” or give an “Ah” of comprehension. When her voice rose in a question he gave a non-committal shrug. He could respond to the peaks and valleys of her intonation and, at the same time, plan his escape.

  They rode into camp from the south. There were no guards. The place was nearly deserted. Here and there women and children worked in front of their lodges erecting poles and racks for drying the meat that would soon come. From the river came the sounds of play and high spirits. George let Mouse Road toe the whistler through the maze of bands and lodges to her home.

  There they dismounted. Mouse Road ran inside while he tied the whistler to the tying-post in front. She came out with several empty waterskins. She said something in her language—of which George could only pick out Thank you and water—and then she was off toward the river.

  As soon as she was out of sight George dashed inside the lodge. He had seen where Storm Arriving kept his arrow-making tools. Among them was the short, heavy-bladed knife he used for trimming the shafts and splitting feathers. He unwrapped the thick piece of hide, took the weapon, and replaced the bundle in its spot behind Storm Arriving’s willow-branch backrest. It felt good to have a weapon in his hand again, even if it was little more than a simple utility tool. It bolstered his confidence and his sense of purpose.

  He tucked the knife into his belt behind his back. Outside, he put on his coat and mounted the waiting whistler.

  “Nóheto,” he told it and, with a touch to its withers, he steered quickly to the northern edge of camp. Then, pointing the whistler toward the open east, he crouched down as he had seen others do. He grabbed onto the first rope and once again gave the command.

  “Nóheto!”

  The acceleration was fierce, and the velocity was frightening, but they were heading east across open land and all George wanted was distance between himself and the camp.

  A gentl
e touch turned them northeast, up the ridge he had descended when he first arrived. The whistler did not slow its pace as it took on the slope.

  He heard a shout and looked back. Guards! There were pickets on the eastern approaches. He swore. Another guard appeared ahead of him. George veered away. The man sprinted to block him, waving his lance. The whistler shied and sped up to go around. The guard was shouting and waving for George to stop, but George had no intention of relinquishing this opportunity. He sped past the guard and over the crest of the ridge—and into the path of a returning patrol.

  Whistlers trumpeted and men cried out in alarm. Seven or eight riders were right in front of him in close formation. With nowhere to turn and no time to stop they collided. George saw feathers and surprised faces. He saw a flash of brass on navy blue and then he saw the sky and the ground as he was thrown from his mount. He hit with a shock that forced the air from his lungs. A moment later, as he lay on the ground blinking and gulping empty breaths, a pain seeped into his side. He reached back to grab the knife as the Indians ran over to him. He found the handle but could not find the blade as it was embedded deep within his side.

  “Aw, Hell,” he said as he at last regained his breath. “Aw, Hell.”

  The Indians of the patrol helped him to his feet, speaking frenetically and all at once. He hissed in pain. One of them lifted the back of his coat. The sight of blood and the handle of the knife protruding from his side cut short all argument. A second of silence ensued—eight men holding their collective breath—and then they were all talking once more.

  They lifted him up

  “I can walk,” he protested and took a step. Pain shot from his knee up into his thigh and his leg crumpled beneath him. The men caught him before he fell and George saw the rip in his pants leg and the dark stain of blood that reached from knee to boot-top and made the fabric cling to his leg like dead skin.