Finding a spot on the dome that suited him, he lay looking up at the sky. Above him, the stars were brilliant. Hugh had seen, painted on animal skins in some of the lodges, maps of this sky.
The Pawnees called themselves Chahiks-i-chahiks--men of men. They considered themselves civilized. They were astronomers and farmers, as well as hunters. They were skilled craftsmen and artists, and yet they were barbaric. Little Feather told him that the various indian tribes were always at war with someone, and the Pawnees seemed to be at war more than anybody. The only way for any tribe to keep from being completely eliminated was to be terrible and fearsome to their enemies. The Pawnees were fearsome. Little Feather told Hugh that among her own people, the Sioux, she had heard it said that it would one day be the downfall of the Pawnees that they had few friends, and many enemies.
Hugh lay on the roof of the lodge, drifting dreamily toward sleep. He could hear the voices of millions of insects in the plains around the village. Nearby, he could hear the murmuring of voices and, as always, the low, rhythmic singing of some of the men. Apparently, during the heat of summer, none of the indians slept inside. Every one of the sixty-three lodges was littered with people. Nearly two thousand people, maybe more, all lying outside and looking up at the stars. Strangely, it gave Hugh a sense of peace and safety that he had never quite experienced before. But he never doubted for a moment that they still intended to kill him.
The time for the next sacrifice was drawing nearer every day, and Hugh was becoming anxious. He wanted to leave. After all, as he had told Little Feather, he wasn't watched. What was there to stop him from just walking away from the village and making his way down the river to safety?
"There are men here," Little Feather told him, "who could track you anywhere you would go. Besides that, your movements through the prairie and in the woods are clumsy and awkward. They would tell of your coming long before you arrived at any place. Other tribes would know of you. None would be your friend."
And so he waited, becoming more anxious as the days passed. At the same time, a strange thing was happening inside him; he was beginning to admire these people--the very ones who would, one day soon, kill him. Some of them he genuinely liked. They were different from him; had beliefs and customs that were different from his, but in their world, those customs made sense. If he had a choice between living with them and living among the so-called "civilized" pirates, Hugh would choose the Pawnees.
He was also certain that some of them had begun to like him. He didn't know if it would or could change what they intended to do with him, but he had made friends among these people.
None of this meant that he had forgotten Clint, or the fact that these were the people who had brought him to such an unsavory end, but Clint was gone. He had not been killed out of spite, pettiness, or out of meanness, as some of Lafitte's men might have done. Little Feather had told Hugh that the Pawnees were a deeply religious people. They believed in dreams and omens. Until Little Knife had stopped the sacrifice of the Comanche girl, it was believed that the Morning Star sacrifice must take place, or the tribe would perish. Even now many of them believed that Ti-ra-wa had been merciful. Ti-ra-wa, she explained, was the Pawnees' principal god. Ti-ra-wa was in and of everything, and had absolute power over everything in the universe.
Kind-of like the God of the Christians, Hugh thought. Well, perhaps Ti-ra-wa would intervene for him.
Hugh wasn't going to count on that.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE TIME to try to escape had passed. The indians were watching him. Three days earlier they had begun, once again, to treat him like royalty. They fawned over him, gave him the finest morsels of food, and gave him new buckskin leggings, new moccasins, and a new buckskin shirt. The shirt was beautifully decorated with ornate beadwork that looked like stars. The brightest of these stars probably represented Venus, the Morning Star.
Now they were keeping him awake again, not allowing him to sleep, celebrating throughout the night. It didn't take a great deal of intelligence to figure out how this night was expected to end. Little Feather had a plan that she thought might save him. It sounded plausible when she had told it to him. Now Hugh wasn't so sure. Earlier that day she had given him a large red rock, which Hugh recognized as vermilion. The rock was hidden in a leather pouch she had sewn, which Hugh wore under his breechcloth. He could feel it there now. It gave him only a small measure of relief. The evening wore on. For awhile Hugh felt himself becoming morose and tired. Then, suddenly, his attitude lifted. If this was to be the last night of his life, then he was going to enjoy it to the hilt. He'd had a month to run away and escape, and he had not done it. It was too late to think about it now.
Beside, these people bore him no ill will. Not really. They had treated him pretty graciously, all in all.
He looked around at some of the faces of the men around him. Big Axe, Little Knife, Big Soldier, Old Knife-Chahiks-i-chahiks-Men of men. These were people who valued strength and courage above all else. They had their own set of values and they adhered to them. Little Feather had told him that they never lied, because the dishonor caused by the discovery of a lie would be worse to them than death.
So if it came to pass that he should die at the hands of these people when morning came, so be it. He would show them how a white man could face death. Better to die in one of their religious ceremonies, no matter how painful it might be, than it would have been to die at the hands of the pirates of Campeche.
Hugh looked over at Big Axe. The warrior seemed to be dressed in his best and finest clothes. He wore a buckskin shirt and leggings, both fringed and decorated with fine beadwork. His face and head were painted completely red, and the thin patch of hair that ran down the center of his head was roached with feathers, making him look like some sort of fierce bird. Hugh counted a dozen scalps tied into the fringes of his shirt and leggings. Each was a trophy taken from an enemy in heated battle. Little Feather had told Hugh that, among the Pawnees, the exploits of Big Axe were legendary. This, Hugh thought, was a man.
Hugh stood suddenly. When he did all talk around the fire ceased and all eyes fell on him.
"Ta-rare-kak-scha!" Hugh said, loudly addressing Big Axe by his Pawnee name. The indians all looked from Hugh to Big Axe in shock, then back at Hugh. "Ta-rare-kak-scha! You are a great warrior! Ta-rare-kak-scha, if it passes that I must die tomorrow, then let your arrow be the first to pierce my heart! Let Ti-ra-wa make it so, Ta-rare-kak-scha!"
Hugh sat down again and resumed staring at the fire. From the corners of his eyes he could see the indians looking at each other in amazement. He hadn't spoken long, but in one breath he had used the name of their god and the name of one of their greatest warriors. He had also spoken Big Axe's name four times, as Little Feather told him to do.
It had begun.
***
The night passed slowly. The indians continued to celebrate, but it seemed more subdued than before, almost guarded. Hugh, by contrast, smiled at them all.
Finally, a general murmur seemed to pass throughout the village, followed by silence. It was time for the sacrifice.
Everyone stood up, including Hugh. It was important, from this point on, that the indians not lay hands on him. Without waiting for instruction, he walked proudly out of the lodge and headed toward the east side of the village, where he knew the framework of poles would be set up. Around him, on all sides and on the roofs of the surrounding earth-lodges, the indians made way to let him pass.
Hugh felt feverish, as he often had before going into battle. Instead of feeling dread, though, as had often been the case with the pirates, he felt strangely excited, eager to get on with it. He wasn't exactly afraid, but he had to fight to keep his body from trembling.
Old Knife was waiting, there in the clearing and looking magnificent, just as Hugh knew he would be. Hugh stopped just before he reached it. Looking at the anxious faces around him, he began to make a speech. It didn't matter that the indians didn't understand a word
of what he said. Little Feather had told him that the words and his tone of voice had to be convincing.
"My Friends!" he began loudly. "For one month I have lived among you! I have eaten your food; sat at your fires; I have watched you laugh. I know the Pawnees to be a great and proud people! I know that your warriors are mighty! I have seen their skill with the lance, and with the bow and arrow. I have seen the scalps which hang from your lodge-poles!
"Like you, I have fought many battles! For years, I had many enemies who tried to slay me, yet they are dead, while I have lived on! I came a long way to be here! If it is so that I must die now, I am proud that it is at the hands of my friends, the Pawnees!"
His speech over, Hugh took off the buckskin shirt. He folded it carefully, then handed it to the warrior nearest him. Then he took off the leggings, folded them, and handed them to another man. Turning, he quickly walked to the spot where the poles had been assembled for the sacrifice. Hugh knew that he was supposed to be completely naked for the ceremony. When he reached the pole-structure he stopped and removed the breechclothcarefully, so that he would not lose the rock that was hidden there. Leaning over, he folded the cloth. As he did he palmed the rock.
Turning, Hugh walked over to where the old chief stood. He could see, beyond Old Knife, all the warriors of the village, waiting, their bows ready. Long Hair, the man who had captured Hugh and Clint, and who had fired the first arrow into Clint when he was sacrificed, stood nearby. Behind him stood a man holding a torch, another who carried the carcass of an owl, and one other who carried some raw meat. Little Feather had told Hugh that the meat that they sacrificed was the heart and tongue of a buffalo. All the men, as far as Hugh could see, were wearing feathered collars, the ones they all wore when Clint was slain, and which Hugh had not seen either before or since.
Old Knife was regarding Hugh with something that looked like amusement. Looking him in the eye, Hugh brought his hand up. He held the hand palm down at first, then turned it over and presented the chief with the rock.
"A gift," Hugh said, "from Ti-ra-wa!"
The rock was a large, bright red piece of vermilion. Even in the dim torchlight there was no mistaking what it was. Old Knife regarded him for a moment. Then he accepted the gift. He looked at the rock for several seconds, thoughtfully. Turning, he held it up for everyone to see. Old Knife began to speak to his people. Hugh had no idea what was being said, but by the astonished stares and murmurs of the indians, he knew it must be important.
Finally, turning, the old man took the wolf robe off his shoulders and place it around Hugh. Then, holding Hugh in front of him, his hands on Hugh's shoulders, Old Knife spoke to him. Again, Hugh had no idea what the chief said, but the words were strangely moving.
When the chief finished speaking, he leaned forward and gave Hugh a hug. Then he ushered Hugh through the crowd and away from the clearing.
The ceremony was over.
***
The feasting went on throughout the following day. Before it was over, Hugh had begun to wish they really had killed him. Immediately after leaving the clearing, Hugh was taken back to Old Knife's lodge, where they fed on buffalo meat and corn until Hugh was quite full. Hugh was tired from being up all night, but not really sleepy after his close brush with death. More than anything, he wanted to talk to Little Feather, to find out what it was the Old Knife had said.
After eating, they smoked from the sacred pipe. Old Knife then brought out three horses, which he presented to Hugh, making it obvious that they were gifts. More curious than ever, Hugh accepted the gifts.
No sooner had they finished, when a young boy came into the lodge. The chief indicated that Hugh should follow him.
The boy led Hugh over to the lodge of Big Axe. Big Axe had a feast of buffalo meat and corn waiting for him. Little Feather had explained to Hugh that one way to insult an indian was to refuse his hospitality, or to not fully indulge in it. Hugh wasn't hungry at all, but he ate again to be polite. Big Axe welcomed him with open arms, but seemed, behind it all, to be a little guarded. That was understandable. Hugh had said some things earlier which Big Axe didn't understand. In asking that Big Axe's arrow be the first to strike him, he had used the indian's name four times--a number, Hugh had been told, that was significant to the indians. He had also used the name of their chief god, Ti-ra-wa, in that same speech. On top of all that, Hugh had done something special enough to save himself from being sacrificed. It was no wonder that Big Axe was a little reticent.
Still, Big Axe welcomed him as a friend and they feasted together. The warrior was a gracious host. He kept the conversation going, even though Hugh didn't understand a word of what was said. Hugh, playing the part of the good guest, managed to stuff himself, even though he had just done so already.
As before, when they finished, they smoked the pipe together. As they were finishing with that, another indian boy appeared. Big Axe indicated that Hugh should follow him.
The boy took Hugh to the lodge of Big Soldier. Like Big Axe, Big Soldier was one of the principal warriors of the tribe, or sub-chiefs. Younger than Big Axe, Big Soldier'was taller than Hugh and thinner, even though he seemed to be all brawn and sinew. Hugh had seen men like this before, aboard ship. They could work all day, seemingly tireless, the extremes of weather having little effect on them.
Big Soldier had prepared a feast for Hugh of buffalo meat and corn, after which they smoked the pipe. Before they were done, another indian boy appeared to take him to the next lodge.
Before the day was over, Hugh would visit ten lodges altogether, and attend feasts in each of them. To refuse to partake in any of them would have been an Insult to his host. Vomiting would have been an even greater one.
Hugh managed to not insult anyone in the village that day.
Barely.
It was two days before Hugh was able to meet with Little Feather again and find out what Old Knife had said. What he learned astounded him.
Little Feather had known that producing the vermilion and making a gift of it was something that would be considered a powerful sign, but even she didn't realize how far it would go. When she explained to Hugh, he was stunned.
"Many years ago," she told him, "long before many of the people in the village were even born, and certainly before Little Knife, Old Knife had another son. Before the first son had seen two summers, though, he was taken from Old Knife by a fever that swept through the village, killing many. Old Knife's wife, the boy's mother, died as well. Old Knife's grief over this was great. For a long time afterward he mourned and was poor in mind.
Time passed, and Old Knife recovered, but he never forgot his wife or his son, and he prayed to Ti-ra-wa to watch over them.
Last Winter, Old Knife began to have dreams about the son. At first this bothered him, and Old Knife worried that the boy might be coming back to haunt him or that it meant that he, Old Knife, might die soon.
Over the past weeks, Old Knife has dreamt of his son again and again. Then, several nights ago, the son appeared to him again. In this dream, the son had grown into a proud, fine warrior. In the dream, as Old Knife watched, the son began to change. He became a white man. He became you. In the dream, the son said that Ti-ra-wa was returning him to Old Knife to give him wisdom about the white man, for the white man would one day come to the land in great numbers and the Pawnees would need this wisdom to know how to deal with them. Old Knife thought long about this dream. He prayed to Ti-ra-wa to give him a sign that this was a true vision and not just the dreams of an old man. When you gave him the sacred rock, he knew it was the sign he had waited for. You are his son. Old Knife has adopted you.
Hugh felt a strange mixture of emotions at what Little Feather told him. Most of it was shock, but there was some gratitude mixed in, along with disbelief. There was something else, too, that Hugh didn't quite understand. He felt oddly emotional at it.
He wanted to thank Little Feather for her help--for saving him. No words came to him, so he merely nodded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I'I' WAS NOW well into summer. The corn the Pawnees had planted was getting tall. Every day the women of the village would go to tend it, sometimes walking miles to get to a spot that was planted in a favored patch of dirt. Sometimes, one or two of the women would not return and would never be seen alive again. The Pawnees had many enemies.
By his best estimation, Hugh had been among the Pawnees for nearly three rnonths. Slowly, but steadily, he was learning to speak their language. He was learning their customs as well.
Storm Dancer, Little Feather's husband, had never returned from his warpath and was presumed dead. Hugh assumed she would be in mourning, but she explained to him that she was, in fact, a war trophy, and that their marriage was not based on love. In any event, he found her more and more beautiful every day, even though he was not at all sure if it was appropriate to think about her. He still had much to learn, he knew, about the ways of the Pawnees.
Sometimes Hugh thought about Sarah, his ex-wife, and about his two boys, Wes and Phillip. The boys would be into their teens now, probably tall and strong. He wondered if he would ever have the occasion to see them again. It wasn't likely, but the way his life had gone for the last couple of years, who could tell. Who could have known that he would have gone from sailor, to pirate, to being the adopted son of a Pawnee chief, all within two years. Certainly not Hugh Glass.
He wasn't sure if it was even wise to think about going back anymore. The authorities would have assumed that the Gallant had been lost to a storm or some other mishap, two years earlier. While Clint was alive, their plan had been to go back and set the record straight. Alone, without Clint to back his story, those same authorities might take issue with what he told them. Hugh, himself, might end up with his head in a noose.
Hugh Glass - Bruce Bradley Page 10