Night Thunder's Bride: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 3

by Karen Kay

  “Aa, my father, I do.”

  “Well, come now, my son, forget your own troubles for a moment and tell me how you would handle this matter.”

  Night Thunder sat reflected in thought for a moment. “I think that both families should make some sacrifice to ensure that Sun will shine down gladly upon them and their decision. Then they should seek out one another and settle the matter however they feel is right. Perhaps gifts will be enough, maybe not.”

  “Aa, my son, you speak wisely. But there is one other problem.”

  “What is that?”

  “One of the obstacles involves a woman—a good woman. Even if a sacrifice is made, the woman would lose a provider. What is to be done about the woman?”

  “Cannot the one family take her as a second or third wife?”

  “Saa, no, not in this case.”

  “Then the one family should find a provider for her as one of their gifts. It is only right that it should be this way.”

  “Aa, again, my son, you speak with the wisdom of a man of your people. I will hasten to find these people and inform them of what they should do. Now, tell me, what is it that brings you to my lodge, bearing me gifts?”

  Night Thunder grinned and stared away. He said, “It is nothing. I have my answer, now, before I even ask you the question.”

  “And so it is with the medicine ways,” said Old Lone Bull, and tipping the ashes of the pipe upon the altar stone, signaled the end of their talk.

  Night Thunder left and hastened to his own lodge. He would begin preparations for the sacrifice even this night.

  Night Thunder awakened to the sound of what must have been thousands of buffalo hoofs running over the dry, hard land, resembling thunder, echoing in the distance. The earth shook under the weight of their sheer numbers. Possessions tied to the tepee lining fell to the floor and lodge poles trembled.

  Night Thunder sat up, observing that Rebecca, amazingly enough, continued to sleep. But he could only spare her a cursory glance. Grabbing hold of his breechcloth and tying it on, he stepped quickly outside his lodge, finding the camp already in chaos.

  All other things forgotten, the people dashed to and fro. The presence of buffalo, this close to the Sun Dance village, bespoke a good omen: no one, not even the old people, would remember a time when buffalo had come so near a Sun Dance. Perhaps Sun had already decided to honor them.

  Excitement filled the camp. It took hold of Night Thunder, while contrarily, he despaired. Hadn’t he only begun preparation for a sacrifice? Would he again have to put off what needed to be done in order to secure his and Rebecca’s future?

  Yet he knew that the secret societies, the dances, each and every ritual, would be abandoned for the stretch of a few days, as all the bands of the tribes would go upon the hunt. No warrior would be allowed to remain idle, not when the winter stores of food lay just beyond their camp.

  Buffalo birds, a particular kind of fowl that lives off the backs of buffalo, had appeared now on the southern perimeter of the camp, pronouncing the presence of the buffalo more efficiently than any camp crier could have.

  Scouts had already been sent out and had arrived back saying that they had seen the buffalo—tens of thousands of them. The buffalo, however, had scented the people and were hurriedly taking flight to the south.

  All the chiefs, united in one massive decision, ordered the camps to make ready for the hunt.

  Night Thunder returned to his own lodge, entering and staring at his pipe, the knives, his medicine bags and flints which he had set out in order to begin his sacrifice this day. It would all have to wait.

  “Kayiiwa,” Rebecca greeted him. “What is it?”

  “Buffalo,” he replied, “close enough to the camp that we are going to have a run.”

  “A run?”

  “The people will go to bring back much buffalo meat for the camp. Prepare yourself to come with me.”

  “Prepare?”

  “Aa, you will be needed to skin the animals and obtain the meat so that it can be brought back to camp. Go to Blue Raven Woman and ask her to help you.”

  “But I had planned to tan a hide this day.”

  He darted her a quick yet sympathetic glance. “I too had many plans for this day, but they will have to wait. The buffalo are here now and the chiefs have ordered a great hunt. The hide you intended to tan will be here when we return and you can do it then. With all there is to do, Blue Raven Woman will need your help to butcher the buffalo cows that we kill.”

  He had knelt down to where he had placed his knives, his pipe, and his medicine bags, carefully returning them to a safe place. He had taken out his paints. Beginning the process of mixing the paints, Night Thunder did not notice Rebecca’s look of horror.

  He chanced a quick glimpse up at her now, and what he saw surprised him. “What causes you to look…so fearful?”

  “You…,” she stuttered, “you expect me to take the meat off the buffalo?”

  He didn’t even look up from what he was doing. He asked, “Aa, yes, we would not waste the meat—”

  “I could never do that.”

  “Tsa, what?” He glanced up at her again.

  “I could never take the meat from an animal.”

  “Have you never butchered a buffalo?”

  “No, I have not.”

  Unconsciously he raised his chin, though he cautioned himself to let not a flicker of emotion cross his face. How, he wondered, did a society manage to raise a woman without the knowledge of how to obtain the meat or the skin from an animal? Strange. How did the white man’s family survive the harsh winters without these skills?

  There was no time to ponder the mystery of it, however. He suggested, “Go to Blue Raven Woman and ask her to help you with it. This will be your first hunt and you will not be expected to do much. And she will teach you all you need to know.”

  Rebecca agreed.

  She paused for a moment, and he felt her watching him. He waited, willing her silently to speak. He was rewarded for his patience, for she began to talk to him. “There was something I wanted to tell you,” she said.

  He had dipped a finger into his paint bowl. Glancing up at her, he sketched a round circle of blue upon his cheek. He said, “Tell it to me now while I paint my body for the hunt. I will listen.”

  She paused, staring at him oddly before she voiced at last, “Later.” She brought a hand up to her stomach to massage it, before she stated again, “Later, after the hunt, I will tell you. For now, it is enough to know that we will have a large store of food for the winter.”

  He grinned at her then and went back to his work, his fingers working quickly at mixing the paint. His spirits began to lift.

  Blue Raven Woman helped her mother sharpen the buffalo knives, while Rebecca tied small children onto the ponies’ withers, as instructed, pushing the babies’ feet under the saddle girths and securing them so that the children might not fall even if a horse should break into a trot.

  The whole camp stirred in excitement and all the people—men, women, children, and even babies—prepared for the hunt.

  Word had been passed from camp to camp that one of the scouts had discovered a white buffalo among the herd—a strong sign of luck, Rebecca had learned. Bets had begun to fly immediately from lodge to lodge, even the old people arguing over which tribe would be the one to secure the white hide.

  Rebecca could little understand such a custom and she asked Blue Raven Woman about it. Blue Raven Woman had given her a strange look before asking, “Do you truly not know?”

  Rebecca shook her head.

  “The white buffalo is a sacred thing to the people, given to us by Sun. When it is killed, the skin is tanned in the best way possible and is given to Sun to be hung on a post at the Sun Dance. Once it is given to Sun, no one—not even an enemy tribe—will touch the skin again. It belongs to Sun.”

  Rebecca listened in silence, making no comment, even though she knew she could never share these beliefs. She did,
however, have another question. “But why are all the warriors vying with one another as to who will be the one to kill it?”

  “It is because the warrior who kills it receives special favor from Sun; his tribe, too. All his friends and his family will have luck,” said Blue Raven Woman. “So you can see that each warrior will want to be the one to take it, that he might be the one to give it to Sun as an offering for himself, for his people.”

  “And no one will ever touch the skin after it is given in this…ceremony?”

  Blue Raven Woman shook her head.

  “Never?”

  “Medicine men are allowed to cut strips off the skin so that they may wrap their medicine pipes in it or make a band for their heads during ceremonies, that Sun might shine more favorably upon them. But that is all.”

  “I see,” acknowledged Rebecca. “Will we hunt no other animal besides the white buffalo, then?”

  “We go to hunt many buffalo. All the people go. There will be many buffalo killed and many full stomachs this winter because of this. It is a good thing that is happening for the people. I cannot remember a time when buffalo have come so close to the Sun Dance camp, and never one with a white buffalo. This is a special Sun Dance camp, I think.”

  “Aa, yes,” said Rebecca, “you could be right.”

  “Aa, I think that I am. But come, we must catch up with the others. Do you see that already people are leaving to follow the herd? We will take this smaller lodge of my mother’s instead of your larger one, that we might carry more meat back to camp. Poohsap-oo-t, come, and let us take the lodge poles down.”

  Rebecca nodded and, standing off to the side, grabbed hold of the pole Blue Raven Woman worked over, and within a matter of minutes, the lodge had been dismantled and placed travois-style upon a pony.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Night Thunder had painted his face and chest blue and white. He dotted white onto his cheeks, forehead, and chin and circled them with blue, the design given to him in a vision. He stood at the side of his pony, painting his mount, the final act in preparation for the hunt. He would pay tribute to his best buffalo pony by depicting it in much the same manner that he had himself.

  He had already sketched blue and white circles around the horse’s eyes. Now he was attending to the horse’s flanks, creating the same blue and white pattern that he wore upon his own body.

  Their tribe had been on the buffalo’s trail for a little over a sun, or a day, and finally, the herd in sight, they were ready to begin.

  Rebecca stood behind Night Thunder as he crouched down, drawing a series of blue circles and streaks down his pony’s leg. Though he was more than aware of her presence near him, he said little to her, his attention centered upon the symbols he painted.

  In due course, however, she spoke to him, saying, “Blue Raven Woman told me that hunting the buffalo is dangerous.”

  Night Thunder didn’t answer at once. He continued his work, rising up onto his feet to draw another circle around one of his pony’s eyes. After a moment, he said, “Often a warrior’s life is in danger, even in camp. Never do we know when and from where the enemy could strike at us, and we must always be prepared. Would you rather not have food for the winter?”

  “It isn’t that,” she said. “It’s only that…well, could we not find a better, safer way to get the food supplies that are needed?”

  He thought for a moment. “In the past,” he said, “we have had a piskun, where the people run the buffalo over a cliff or into a pen where the animals are slaughtered. But we do not like to do this too often, too many are killed this way—more than the people can use. And even in luring the animals into a piskun, there is danger. Better it is that we hunt and kill the buffalo this way, that our friends the buffalo may continue to flourish upon our land.”

  “But there are so many of them; surely you needn’t worry about how many buffalo you kill, do you?”

  Night Thunder shrugged. “Our wise men say change is coming. And our wise men tell us that we must take from the buffalo only what we need.”

  From out of the corner of his eye, he observed Rebecca stare away from him. The ripple of a warm chinook breeze blew in, and he watched her as the wind suddenly swept into her face, pushing back her hair. It reminded him of how she had looked a few nights previous, as she had lain beneath him, and his breath caught in his throat.

  She seemed to want to continue to argue with him, though, and she said, “Promise me that you will be alert today, that you will not take any unnecessary chances.”

  “Chances,” he mimicked, “what are these ‘chances’?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, placed her hands on her hips and said, “You know very well what chances are.”

  He grinned as he gave her a quick look. Had she been more observant, she might have noted a twinkle reflected in his eye before he began to talk. But he could tell that she was preoccupied, so he said, “I will try not to ride too many bulls, that you should worry about me.”

  “Ride bulls? What bulls?”

  Night Thunder gave her a wide-eyed stare. “Buffalo bulls.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “What is this ‘jest’?” he inquired. “I do not know what this is, but aa, yes, have you never heard that the Indian must ride to its death every buffalo that he shoots—before the cow can be butchered?”

  Rebecca turned her attention on him and gave him a weary gaze. “I have never heard of such a ridiculous thing.”

  Night Thunder grunted. “An Indian cannot eat the meat of such a bull or cow that has not been ridden. Bad medicine,” he said, keeping his countenance serious. “Very bad medicine, indeed. Indians ride the cows all time. Must ride buffalo before we butcher them, or buffalo get mad at us and never return. People go hungry then.”

  She gave him another suspicious look, but he hid his face from her so she would not be able to see directly into his eyes.

  Someone called to him—Singing Bull—and Night Thunder handed his pony’s reins to Rebecca. He said, “I go now. Keep close to Blue Raven Woman, and stay away from the buffalo until they are killed and ready to be butchered.”

  He turned to leave, but she caught his arm, staying him. “Night Thunder,” she asked, “do you tease me? About the buffalo?”

  At last he smiled; he couldn’t help himself. But all he said was, “Ask Blue Raven Woman to tell you if I make joke or not. But see this lasso?”

  She nodded.

  “I catch many buffalo to ride with this.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, and he laughed. “Watch carefully to see if we Indians ride these buffalo.”

  “I do not want you riding them.”

  “No?” He grinned at her. “Here, take this horse. He is my best buffalo pony. He knows what to do. You tell him to keep me safe and keep me from riding the wild buffalo. He will do it.”

  Rebecca opened her mouth to say something else, but Night Thunder added, a note of humor in his voice, “Tell him in good Blackfoot. He understands not the words of the white man.”

  “Humph,” Rebecca responded. But as she studied the horse, noting a look of unusual intelligence in its eyes, she said to it, “Matsiw-ohkit-opii-wa, he is the rider of a fine horse.”

  She petted the pony’s nose, then in Blackfoot, said, “I’m making it your responsibility, now, to bring my husband back to me safe and unharmed.” She added, under her breath, “And keep him away from riding those buffalo.”

  The pony whinnied softly as though he had understood each and every word, and Rebecca smiled.

  Night Thunder sat several feet above the prairie, squatting down upon the lower edge of a butte. The warm air pushed his hair into his face, but he had tied its long strands back into three braids, two at the side of his face and one straight down his back. No jewelry adorned his appearance this day, nor heavy clothing—Night Thunder settling for breechcloth and moccasins alone, nothing extra to get in his way. The warming rays of Sun shone down upon him, the feel of them giving him c
ourage. He waited for the signal to begin the hunt and as he sat, lit his pipe that he might wile away the warm day, his eyes ever scanning the horizon.

  As he looked out upon the land, his heart expanded in his chest and he breathed in deeply. Everywhere as far as the eye could see were buffalo—so many, one couldn’t count them. The ever-present wind rushed by him, seeming to whisper something in its wake. But he could not understand the words, and he gave up trying.

  A peacefulness settled over him. This was the home that he loved: the land, the wind, the thunder, the lightning. A part of him reached out to the ends of the horizon, and he felt himself expand, his thoughts gaining space so that they did not bother him so much. Thus he sat for quite a while.

  He brought his gaze back, after a time, closer to the butte, and peered into the buffalo herds. Try as he might, he could not discern a white buffalo. There were simply too many of them and a white one would have faded into the herds and landscape.

  He waited for the signal to be given so that he could begin the run on the herd. Not until that signal came could he or anyone else begin the hunt, lest they disturb the herd before all was ready. No one would be allowed to scare the animals before the proper time, sending them away. Such an action might leave their tribes with nothing—no meat and no winter stores.

  To the southeast of him, he discerned a commotion and noted that several warriors had already begun the hunt.

  “It must be the white buffalo,” he said to himself. No one would have begun the chase before the signal was given; not unless there were some unusual circumstance to cause it, and a white buffalo was circumstance enough.

  The riders, the buffalo, were no more than dark specks to his eyes, yet, aa, yes, there it was, out in front of the hunters. The white buffalo.

  Emptying his pipe and wrapping it up quickly, Night Thunder put it away and jumped onto his pony, setting it into motion and riding out in a quickened trot to intercept the herd. He would catch that white one.

  It took him little time to maneuver himself onto a slight elevation in the land, which seemed to be near where the frightened buffalo would have to pass.