I stared at the dead warrior for perhaps twenty minutes before the sick feeling in my gut lessened and I began to feel a surge of power. I had killed an enemy! My hand went to my knife as if it had a life of its own, and before I fully realized what I was doing, I had sliced off the Pawnee’s scalp lock. I took his weapons, too, as well as the small medicine bag he wore behind his right ear. His medicine was now mine.
Jubilant, I raced for home.
There was a scalp dance that night, and I felt like my heart would burst with excitement as I took my place on the warrior’s side of the circle, flanked by my father and the leading men of the tribe.
When it was my turn, I walked boldly forward. Pausing dramatically in the center of the circle, I began to act out, in dance and pantomime, how I had killed and scalped the Pawnee. The warriors shouted their approval as I waved the Pawnee’s medicine bundle and scalp lock high over my head.
When I finished my story, my father took an eagle feather from his own warbonnet and placed it in my hair. It was the proudest moment of my life.
* * *
Snow Flower looked at me with new eyes the next day. I had killed an enemy and endured the Sun Dance. I was a man now, a blooded warrior, and eligible to court a maiden.
That afternoon I followed Snow Flower to the river, careful not to follow too closely lest I attract the attention of her mother, one of her sisters, or another of her female relatives. The virtue of an unmarried Cheyenne girl was closely guarded, and a dire penalty awaited any man foolish enough to violate the chastity of a maiden.
I slipped behind a tree, admiring the shape of Snow Flower’s hips beneath the doeskin dress when she knelt at the water’s edge to fill her waterskin. She was an incredibly lovely young woman, all gentle curves and soft flesh.
“I was proud of a certain warrior last night,” she remarked, apparently speaking to the river.
“It makes this warrior glad to know he was in your thoughts,” I replied, wondering why it was so difficult to speak.
“It would be a great honor if such a brave warrior smiled in my direction.”
“I have often looked upon you,” I admitted with more boldness.
Snow Flower rose gracefully to her feet and walked slowly up the path, hesitating near the tree where I was standing. She did not look at me.
“I have often felt your eyes upon me,” she confessed shyly, “and my heart has been glad.”
“I might be walking by your lodge tonight,” I remarked, though until that moment I had harbored no such intention.
“I might be outside as the sun goes down,” she murmured, and hurried up the path.
That day, it seemed like the sun would never set. To pass the time, I stopped to visit Spotted Elk, the aged warrior who had once been a leader of our people. No one knew for certain how old Spotted Elk was, but it was thought that he had seen at least eighty winters, a vast age for a man who had been an active warrior for most of his life.
He was a man of many talents. All warriors could fashion arrows, of course, but Spotted Elk was a true craftsman. His arrows always flew straight and true. He preferred red willow branches for the shafts, taking care that they were the proper length and width, carefully making sure the proportions were exactly right. An arrow too light in the shaft would not fly straight; one that was too heavy would not carry far enough to be of much use.
Spotted Elk was too feeble to hunt now, and our warriors often traded meat or hides for his arrows. He was a wise old man, and I was very fond of him.
We spoke of trivial things for a few minutes and then he began to talk of the days of his youth, of battles he had fought in, of scalps he had taken. He smiled at me when he spoke of scalps, remarking on the Pawnee scalp that I had taken.
“How did you feel when you killed the Pawnee?” he asked.
I hesitated, ashamed to admit that I had been sickened by what I had done.
He stared at me, waiting for my answer. His dark eyes, filled with wisdom and knowledge, were clear and sharp despite his advanced years.
He reached toward me, his gnarled hand settling on my stomach, then moving to my heart. “Were you sick, here and here?”
I nodded, too ashamed to speak.
“It is good,” he said, nodding. “A human being should feel remorse the first time he takes a life. Killing should not be easy, nor should it ever become so. Follow the Life Path, Black Wolf, and you will never go wrong.”
I thought of his words as I walked through the village, pausing a moment to watch Magpie Girl strip the hair from a buffalo hide. It was a long process, turning a green hide into a soft robe. First, the hide was staked out on a flat stretch of ground and all the meat and fat was scraped from the hide with a scraping tool, usually the leg bone of a buffalo. Sometimes the hair was also removed; sometimes it was left on for added warmth. Next, a mixture of brains, liver, and melted fat was worked into the green hide. When that was done, the skin was soaked in water for a period of time, then the excess liquid was stripped out with a long stone blade and the hide was stretched out to dry. Lastly, the hide was worked and pounded until it was soft and pliable.
Leaving Magpie Girl’s lodge, I glanced up at the sky. Incredibly, the sun had hardly moved! With a frown, I walked back down to the river, swam for half an hour, washed my hair, and returned to my lodge.
At last, the sun slipped behind the mountains and I made my way to Snow Flower’s lodge. Several of the older women smiled knowingly as I passed by and I wondered how they knew I was bound for Snow Flower’s lodge.
Among the Cheyenne, courting might last anywhere from one year to five. Once a young man felt sure of receiving his chosen one’s consent, he went to her parents for theirs. Usually, an older man, a friend or relative, would take a number of horses and go to the girl’s parents to ask for the girl’s hand in marriage. Once the message was delivered, the go-between went home. If the girl’s parents didn’t approve of the marriage, the father would return the horses to the young man’s lodge; but if the marriage was acceptable, the girl’s father sent her, and a number of horses, usually more than those that had been received, to the lodge of the young man’s father.
I didn’t know if Snow Flower’s parents would approve of me. I had not yet proven myself in battle, yet I had taken a Pawnee scalp.
My heart pounded with nervous excitement as I neared my destination. I had dressed in my best elkskin clout, a sleeveless vest, and a pair of fringed, knee-high moccasins. My hair, long and straight, fell free about my shoulders, adorned with the single eagle feather my father had given me.
Snow Flower was standing outside her lodge, just as she had promised, a big red courting blanket draped around her shoulders. She wore an ankle-length doeskin dress that had been tanned until it was almost white, and a pair of beaded moccasins. Her hair fell over her shoulders like a black silk waterfall, framing a face that was perfect in every detail, from the delicate brows arched above luminous black eyes to her sweet mouth.
My steps slowed as I drew nearer. What if she wasn’t waiting for me at all? What if she had changed her mind, and she was waiting for someone else? The humiliation would be more than I could bear.
It was in my mind to turn back before I made a complete fool of myself but then, with a warm smile, Snow Flower held out her hand. My neck and ears burned with embarrassment as I quickly stepped up beside her. I sighed with relief when she drew the blanket over our heads and shoulders, sealing us in the folds of a red cloth cocoon.
Hidden away from prying eyes, we stood mute for a few minutes, a little ill at ease because we were really strangers to each other and because, by tomorrow morning, everyone in the village would know we were courting. We talked of trivial things at first, about the black bear Snow Flower’s brother had killed, about the upcoming feast to honor her father, who had guided a successful raid against the Crow.
All too soon, we ran out of small talk. Swallowing hard, I took Snow Flower’s hand in mind and gave it a gentle squeeze.<
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“This warrior would be fortunate to win a maiden as fair as the one whose hand I now hold,” I said, my voice sounding strangely thick to my ears.
“And this maiden would be honored to dwell in the lodge of a warrior as brave and handsome as the one who stands here beside me,” she replied, squeezing my hand in return.
Suddenly, a long courtship seemed impossible to endure. It was in my mind to ask Snow Flower to run away with me, but that seemed shameful somehow, and I knew that I would wait, that in the days to come, I would play my flute outside her lodge, and send presents to Snow Flower’s father. When the time was right, I would ride to the land of the Crow, where I would steal as many horses as I could, knowing that offering horses stolen from the enemy was the highest compliment I could pay to Snow Flower and her parents.
I gazed into Snow Flower’s eyes, imaging what it would be like to take her for my wife. When the time came, she would come to me on her best horse, led by a woman who was not related to her. Her mother would follow behind, leading a number of horses. Before they reached my father’s lodge, some of her relatives would come out carrying a fine blanket, which they would spread on the ground. Snow Flower would sit on the blanket and her friends and relatives would lift the blanket and carry her into my father’s lodge. All of this would be done in silence.
“Soon,” I whispered. “Soon I will send someone to speak to your father.”
She smiled at me, squeezed my hand again, and then the blanket came down.
I walked briskly back to my father’s lodge. I knew I was grinning foolishly, but I couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
Truly, it was good to be a warrior.
Chapter 4
It was late on a hot mid-summer day when a hunting party returned to the village with four prisoners who had been caught hunting on our land. High Yellow Cloud’s eyes burned with rage as he opened a large pouch and pulled out two handfuls of long black scalps, which he lifted high overhead so that all could see they were Indian scalps. Some so small they could only have come from children. An angry murmur swept through those who stood nearby.
Except for Rusty Johnson, these were the first white men I had ever seen, and I studied them from a distance, watching their futile struggles as they fought against the warriors who dragged them from their horses. The white men were quickly stripped of their clothing, and then tied to trees on the outskirts of the village.
As soon as the prisoners were securely bound, they were surrounded by little boys who began to dance around the captives, stomping their feet and yelling in a childish imitation of the Cheyenne war dance.
Other children threw rocks and mud clods at the prisoners, shrieking with delight when one of their missiles struck the target. Still others found long sticks and counted coup on the helpless vehoe.
When the younger children grew bored with their sport, Soaring Eagle and a few of the other young men gathered around the oldest vehoe. He was a short, fat individual with short brown hair and watery yellow eyes. He groaned softly as the young braves began to torture him with their knives, opening shallow cuts along his arms and legs and torso, until his chest and limbs were red with blood.
Abruptly, the warriors turned their attention to the youngest prisoner. He was tall and lean, perhaps seventeen years old, with light blond hair and the palest blue eyes I had ever seen. He was not so brave as the first man, and he squealed with fear as Yellow Turtle’s knife slit his flesh, screamed like an animal caught in a trap when Soaring Eagle dragged the edge of his blade down the length of his chest. Tears welled in the prisoner’s eyes as the warriors began to mock him, slapping him with their open palms until they tired of the sport and turned to the third vehoe.
This man had the look of a coward about him, and he proved it by fainting dead away when the young men surrounded him. Sneering with disgust, Soaring Eagle’s father slit the coward’s throat.
The fourth man was in his prime. Tall and strong, his skin as browns as any Cheyenne’s, he faced his tormentors with his shoulders back and his head high. His eyes were cold and gray, and they blazed with defiance as the warriors launched their attack. The knives of the young men bit deep into the prisoner’s flesh, unleashing great rivers of blood, but the vehoe remained mute under their attack and soon the crowd that had gathered moved away.
Later, there would be dancing and feasting to celebrate the capture of the white men, and then the prisoners would be killed, slowly. Already, the warriors were betting on how long the brave vehoe would last.
I remained where I was, hidden from the prisoners’ sight by a clump of sagebrush. The faces of the three surviving men were grim as they stared at their dead companion.
“Poor Fred,” the fat man lamented. “What a way to go.”
“Poor Fred, hell,” growled the gray-eyed vehoe. “At least he went quick. Before this day is over, you’ll be wishing you had died with him.”
“Damn savages!” the fat man rasped. “Damn heathen, gut-eatin’ savages. I hope they all burn in hell!”
“Yeah, and we’ll be there to meet ‘em,” the gray-eyed vehoe remarked ruefully, and the two men fell silent, their faces apprehensive.
The blond-haired youth wept, his chin resting on his chest, his whole attitude one of abject fear and despair.
As night dropped a cloak of darkness over the face of the land, my people began to gather around the captives. Several young boys dug a fire pit, and soon a huge bonfire illuminated the camp, casting grotesque shadows on the surrounding lodge skins.
Red Glass, Six Toes, and Hump Bear sat at a large drum, beating out a slow rhythm on the taut hide. Soon, many warriors were dancing to the beat of the drum, and as more and more men joined the dance, the drumming grew faster and faster.
Shortly, Crooked Horn began to chant, his voice strong and powerful for one so full of years. In minutes, he stood alone in the midst of the circle, his hands raised to Man Above as he began to relate incidents depicting the treachery of the vehoe. His voice rose in intensity as he told of treaties broken, of rotten trade whiskey that addled a man’s mind, of Indian women forced into slavery and prostitution, of Indian children who had been cut from their mother’s wombs.
The prisoners did not understand the old shaman’s words, but they had no trouble understanding the tide of anger that rippled through the crowd. Rivers of sweat poured down their pale faces, and it was not caused by the heat of the flames.
Crooked Horn signaled for silence, and the angry shouts and hisses died away.
“Let every woman who has lost a loved one to the vehoe take her vengeance now,” the medicine man invited, and there was a sudden flurry of movement as the women broke away from the crowd. Knives flashed in the firelight like flickering fingers of flame as each woman who had lost a husband, a son, a father, a brother, made a cut in the quivering flesh of one of the vehoe.
As the women drew back, Crooked Horn again raised his arms toward heaven. “Soaring Eagle, Black Wolf, Walks Tall, come forward.”
I was trembling with excitement as I made my way to the shaman’s side. Soaring Eagle smiled at me, and something in his quick grin sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine. Walks Tall joined us, his eyes alight with anticipation.
Crooked Horn touched each of us on the right shoulder. “These three are among the best young warriors the Cheyenne Nation has ever known,” he proclaimed solemnly. “To them shall go the honor of killing our enemies.”
With great deliberation, Crooked Horn withdrew a long slender blade from his belt. “The yellow-eyed prisoner is yours,” the shaman told Soaring Eagle, and handed him the knife.
Soaring Eagle’s eyes burned with a sudden bitter hatred as his hand closed over the knife’s bone handle. I could understand my friend’s hatred. His older brother and his uncle had both been killed by the vehoe.
A short, high-pitched whine rose from Soaring Eagle’s lips as he sprang forward and with one long slashing motion, ripped the white man open from neck to groin.
/> The fat man screamed in agony as his guts spilled out at his feet like fat pink worms. Writhing in pain, he opened his mouth to scream again when death stilled his voice forever.
A wordless cry of approval rose from the warriors as Soaring Eagle handed the bloody knife to Walks Tall.
Crooked Horn nodded at Walks Tall. “The gray-eyed vehoe is yours,” the shaman said, and Walks Tall moved purposefully toward his victim.
The white man sucked in his breath as Walks Tall strutted toward him. Once, twice, three times, Walks Tall slashed at the prisoner, opening deep gashes in the prisoner’s chest and belly. Blood flowed freely, mingling with the man’s sweat.
The smell of blood and fear was overwhelming.
There was an air of expectation in the crowd as they waited for the prisoner to cry out, to plead for mercy that he would never find, but he remained mute, his lips drawn in a tight white line, his eyes staring into the distance.
Walks Tall frowned, discouraged because he had failed to make the vehoe cry out and therefore prove his cowardice. Again and again, he drove his blade into the prisoner’s flesh, but the man remained silent, his whole body taut with pain. A murmur of admiration whispered through the crowd. This man had courage!
The fire burned low, and still Walks Tall’s blade danced across the vehoe’s sweat-sheened flesh. Blood covered him like a blanket, yet he never uttered a sound. Time seemed to stand still as Walks Tall paused in his attack, obviously greatly annoyed by the white man’s unexpected courage and strength. A shudder wracked the prisoner’s body as he stared defiantly at Walks Tall. Then, with a great effort of will, the vehoe grinned at his tormentor.
It was more than Walks Tall could bear, and it brought the white man the results he desired. With a shriek of rage, Walks Tall lunged forward and slit the man’s throat.
A great sigh issued from the people. Truly, this white man had possessed the heart of a warrior.
Walks Tall scowled with displeasure as he tossed me the knife. The haft was warm in my hand, the thin blade dripping with blood as I walked toward the last captive. Great rivers of sweat coursed down the boy’s pale torso. His eyes were wild with fright, like those of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a mountain lion. He was shaking uncontrollably, and his head wagged back and forth as he whispered, “No, no, this can’t be happening.”
In the Shadow of the Hills Page 4