The scene shifted again with the arrival of the Arapahos. Mrs. Adams grandly came forward again, all former embarrassment (of her inabilities to communicate with White Bear, and then running off with a shriek during a tense moment) eased, the instant she began speaking with her kinsmen. It was also clear that the generals were now angry with White Bear, pointedly ignoring him as they greeted and shook hands with the seemingly more docile Araphaos.
Skywalker turned, gave a hand sign, and the rest of us dismounted, taking refuge in the shade of cottonwoods. Skywalker kept Billy close to him, as he knew Billy to be a man able to understand many languages. Because he wore a large black hat pulled low on his forehead, hiding prominent cheekbones and crescent-shaped eyes from the whites, Billy was simply someone in the army’s employ, a young frontiersman of very little account. Not one of the generals suspected his mixed blood or noticed that, while they paid homage to the Arapahos, Billy was muttering into Skywalker’s ear. In turn, Skywalker muttered into White Bear’s. White Bear’s expression turned dangerously stony and I could feel my heart beginning to thump again. Incensed that they were now being ignored because the generals were too busy fawning over the Arapaho chiefs, Skywalker and White Bear turned on their heels and went for their horses. On that cue we mounted up and followed White Bear as he left the Blue Jackets’ camp, intentionally riding too close to the standing people so that the hooves of our horses would throw back dust in their faces.
So began the first day of our being at Medicine Lodge, Kansas.
* * *
Back at our camp, I promptly returned the borrowed horse, clothing, and weaponry. Angry by the way things had gone with the Blue Jackets, White Bear was in one of his difficult moods. When he got like that, only Skywalker could handle him. Grateful that I was not needed or especially wanted, I slumped off. During the walk for home, I planned how to make it up with my wife, praying she would be open to a sincere apology.
She was.
But probably only because I looked so tired and awful. When I think of my marriage with her, I think of a unique partnership that went beyond the usual bonds of our marriage, even beyond the depths of our love. I could always count on her—count on her to put away her anger when she knew how much I needed her. On that day she took one look at me and yelped, “Oh my goodness.” Then took me by the hand, led me to the creek. Naked, we both sat in the shallows, Crying Wind directly behind me, bathing me like a baby. Each time she moved I felt the sway of her breasts against my back and the touch of her bent knees against my arms. While she soaped my hair and skin, washing away sweat and dust, I lavishly apologized, taking the blame for every fault of mankind since the beginning of the world.
My groveling was duly rewarded.
The next-best thing my wife did was make wonderful beans. She had a special container she used whenever we traveled. In that container she kept beans soaking so that when we made camp those beans would be tender enough to cook. Then into the pot with the beans would go onions, meat, and spicy herbs. They were delicious. I never could get enough of them, especially when she served them with fried cornmeal cakes that were crispy on the outside but doughy soft in the middle. That was the meal she made for me just after the bath, putting an agreeable end to our former hostilities and a rather unique day.
But then, that was life with Crying Wind. She was tempestuous but gentle, levelheaded but silly. She brought everything into my life: joy, confusion, laughter, passion. The only thing I had to offer in return was my entire heart. I will be forever grateful she felt this small token was enough.
* * *
As I’ve said before, Skywalker was my best friend, but he was also an Onde, a member of our Nation’s highest caste. He was also a To-yop-ke, a war chief, as well as an Owl Doctor. It was unusual for such a man, a prince of our Nation, to be friends with a man such as myself—a man of the Kauaun class, a commoner—but that was Skywalker. He was known to be eccentric and I was viewed as just another of his eccentricities. Normally we were together every day, but during the next days at Medicine Lodge, I didn’t see him at all. So I visited Hawwy.
I suppose he was handsome, but not in any way that I was used to. He was a well-built man and his hair was very curly and black, almost like a Buffalo Soldier’s. One solid eyebrow made a thick line from one side of his forehead to the other. He had a large jaw, a generous mouth, and dark eyes. I suppose all of this is “handsome”—I really don’t know. But he did attract a lot of female attention.
I was touched that he was so pleased to see me, and felt guilty. I was still spying for White Bear, and visiting Hawwy was a good way for me to do that. But I’m not a good spy, as I have no ability to pay close attention to anything other than the perfecting of my healing craft. The upshot is, my intentions to spy on the Blue Jackets were almost immediately forgotten when I settled on a camp stool next to Hawwy. I watched only him as he tended to patients.
Soldiers with all manner of ailments came every morning to stand in a line outside Hawwy’s tent. In no time at all, I was enthralled with his black bag containing all manner of exotic metal instruments and tiny bottles of medicines. Watching him, I learned how to extract a back tooth using a pulling instrument that, at first glance, appeared to be too large to fit inside a human mouth.
But when it came to treating a black soldier with a festering wound, I quickly intervened. The gash was deep and the man was in great pain. Two of his fellows had supported his weight throughout the time he’d waited his turn in the line. Hawwy was going to pour some of that white smelly-water on it and I knew from past experience just how much that stuff hurt. My form of treatment brought no discomfort, not even a twinge. I cleaned out green pus, seared the damaged flesh with punk wood, and then protected the wound with melted tallow and wrapped it with a clean bandage. When that black-white man looked at me, like a twinkling star in a dark heaven, gratitude shone from his inky eyes. He said his name was William, and he shook my hand.
* * *
Hawwy and I passed the next three days just that way, treating patients from the Blue Jackets’ camp, and many Indian patients who came in from the outlying camps. Hawwy and I were kept so busy that the rapidly developing tensions between the Nations and the Blue Jackets sailed by us unnoticed.
The one thing I did notice was the man Buug-lah. As he had been the primary reason for almost getting me killed, I noticed him quite a lot. While he wore the stripes of a common soldier on the sleeves of his jacket, he carried himself in a proud way—very like the young officer he was continually with; the same officer who had led him off after Hawwy had picked him up off the ground. Buug-lah talked to that officer like they were the best of friends, but the officer appeared more pensive than amicable.
As on the first occasion of my notice, I was sitting in the shade of the medical tent’s awning when the two passed. Feeling my stare, the one known to us as Buug-lah turned his head and looked directly at me. The man had the coldest blue eyes I have ever seen. Our mutual scrutiny lasted no more than seconds, but judging by the slow curving of his lips, I suffered his contempt. Finely shaped nostrils flared slightly, then he returned his attention to his companion. They stopped not far from the medical tent and, after a brief discussion—the young officer appearing quite disturbed by whatever was said—the men parted company, each going his separate way. I didn’t think much about the officer, for my gaze followed Buug-lah. Watching him go, I realized he reminded me of someone.
Raven’s Wing, the very fellow who had assisted me by subduing The Cheyenne Robber’s accidental gunshot victim, was politically ambitious; his burning goal was to become White Bear’s right-hand man. His efforts were frustrated by the fact that The Cheyenne Robber, White Bear’s favorite nephew, already held this noble office. I have never cared for ambitious men. I know them to be very shallow: friendships formed on who the other person is, rather than on the kindness or generosity of that other person. That’s why Raven’s Wing wanted to be good friends with White Bear, because Wh
ite Bear had power and influence—the mere mention of his name causing heads to nod, men to say, “Yes, I know of him.” To be White Bear’s most trusted man meant that Raven’s Wing would bask in White Bear’s reflected glory.
It seemed to me that was what Buug-lah was doing too—walking around the camp with that pinched-face young officer and talking in a loud way to draw attention to himself. It was almost as if he was half shouting, “Look at me! My friend is important. I am important too.” Mulling on this, in an offhanded way, I asked Hawwy about the young officer and the one called Buug-lah.
Shrugging deeply, he replied, “We are from different companies.”
Pressing the issue, I leaned forward, asking in measured words, “Is it usual for a man with stripes on his coat to be friendly with a soldier-chief?”
Hawwy took a long time considering, his full lips twisting to the side. “No.”
“Why not?”
Using the ever-present Billy to speak for him, Hawwy launched into a lengthy explanation of the army ranking system. I quickly came to realize that the Blue Jacket ranking system was very close to our own. With one notable difference. In the Kiowa system, through proven deeds of bravery and generosity, a man could jump rank (which is exactly how Big Tree had come from nothing but became an Onde). Hawwy said that officers went to special schools.
“And there are no other conditions?”
Hawwy thought again. Finally he said, “There is one.”
“What?”
“A man can buy a commission. But,” he added hastily, “that would take a great deal of money.”
Putting an end to the discussion, he began treating the next patient, looking inside that man’s mouth, having him say, “Ahhhh.”
* * *
I was so long in the Blue Jackets’ camp, and so involved with Hawwy’s form of doctoring, that if it hadn’t been for my wife—a born-into Onde, therefore one of the few women eligible to serve the great men of the council—I wouldn’t have known anything that was going on in my own home camp. It was one of those times when her gossipy nature worked to my advantage.
“Lone Wolf and White Bear argue constantly,” she said as we shared the evening meal. “The wagons of gifts the Blue Jackets promised still have not been seen by the scouts. Lone Wolf said we must be patient. White Bear said the Blue Jackets have lied, that no wagons are coming. Kicking Bird said they will come, that White Bear is a fool to say otherwise because no sane people would make up such a lie. Then, of course, White Bear took offense at being called a fool, and the yelling could be heard all over the encampment.”
“What did Skywalker say?”
She drew an angry breath through her nose. “Oh, him? Nothing. Not one word.”
Shaking my head, I picked at the stewed meat in my bowl.
Thinking that I did not believe her account, and promptly offended, she railed, “You don’t know your friend as well as you think you do. I have known him almost the whole of my life and I can tell you Skywalker does not like to be crossed. When he gets like that, he won’t talk. Not even when he is asked to.”
My head popping up, I yelled, “I know him well enough to know that no matter how angry he might be, he would never attend a council and say nothing.”
“Well, all right, then,” she fumed. “He did say something, but it wasn’t useful because no one understood it.”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
A trifle calmer now, Crying Wind pursed her lips. “Well,” she drawled, as if trying to remember correctly, “he told my cousin The Bear [White Bear], not to touch the thing on the ground.”
“What thing?”
Showing me the palms of her hands, Crying Wind lifted her shoulders in a broad shrug.
* * *
The very next day White Bear had far greater concerns than missing wagons or Skywalker’s vague message. The officer with the saber, the one who had been so willing—no, anxious—to gun down the Kiowa delegation, was named Major Elliot. Newly arrived in Indian Territory, this officer was quite impatient to become known as an Indian Fighter. He also wanted to do something else: kill buffalo. Having become bored with simply being on his guard during the days of the uneasy truce at Medicine Lodge, Major Elliot and a half dozen other officers went on a buffalo-killing spree.
What they failed to realize was just how well sound carries over the prairie. Hearing the distant popping of rifles, White Bear and a team of warriors rode out to investigate and found Elliot happily chasing a herd, killing only the slower-moving cows who were trying to protect their spindly-legged calves. White Bear went after Elliot and, catching the man, beat him to a bloodied pulp. I was present in the Blue Jacket camp when White Bear rode in, hauling Major Elliot, tied belly-down across the saddle of his horse.
Hawwy and I were sitting on the little stools, examining a series of saws as he tried to make me understand why the army’s notion of first aid was to remove the limbs of wounded men. Frankly, I never understood that at all. A person needs arms and legs, and cutting them off simply because an arm or a leg is wounded is a terrible waste. Hawwy and I were arguing about this when White Bear brought in the captured soldiers.
White Bear could be daunting in the best of conditions, but when he was in a rage, he was terrifying. His shouting voice was like the sound of thunder as he untied Elliot, the man sliding from the saddle like an unconscious snake, hitting the ground head-first. The other warriors badly manhandled the remaining officers, pulling them from their horses, forcing them to kneel then roughly shoving their heads into a bow. The Cheyenne Robber, just as infuriated as his uncle, stood over Elliot’s spread-out body while White Bear roared the nature of Elliot’s and the other officers’ crimes. Once again Mrs. Adams chose to retreat. The Comanche-speaking man seemed to be doing well enough without her services anyway, so no one tried to stop her flapping flight.
White Bear was not speaking Comanche, but the interpreter was able to repeat him word for word and without a flaw. I looked at that man more closely and saw something no one else was paying any attention to. Directly behind the Comanche-speaking man stood Billy. With a hand shielding his mouth, he interpreted for White Bear, and Philip McCusker, the paid interpreter, merely repeated everything Billy said.
“I caught this filth murdering my buffalo. He was not killing for food, he was killing for sport. I beat him until he cried, ‘enough!’ I have brought him to you for further punishment. I give you this promise, if he isn’t punished, it will go hard for all of you.”
General Gettis was not a man who liked to be pushed. This was evident in the way he stood very tall, puffed out his chest, tightened his jaw. But this anger was not for his misbehaving officers. Following the line of his significant stare, his conspicuous wrath was focused on White Bear. The general issued orders in a snarling tone, and Major Elliot and the other officers were duly arrested, taken to that second tent. Now I felt I knew its use, but still did not understand its location. Nudging Hawwy, I asked in a low tone, “Why has a punishment tent been set so close to the Arapaho woman’s?”
Coming out of a shocked stupor, Hawwy yelped, “What?”
After I repeated the question Hawwy answered in his painfully awkward Kiowa. “Not punish tent. Buug-lah tent.”
I considered this briefly, then pressed another question. “Buug-lah doesn’t mind sharing his tent with punished men?”
Hawwy looked to the side then down at me. Hawwy was very tall. That single black eyebrow of his, furrowed at the bridge of his nose. “Buug-lah, he run ’way.”
“Why?”
Hawwy looked frustrated as he tried to make his awkward tongue form Kiowa words. “Stole horse. My chiefs want hang him.”
“Must have been a good horse,” I replied.
Hawwy sent me a frown, then shouted, as if I were hard of hearing, “Buug-lah run ’way!”
That is another thing I have never been able to tolerate about the Blue Jackets: their fondness for publicly hanging a man by his neck until he is
dead. In the Kiowa view of life, when a man becomes unhappy with his band or his band chief, it is right for him to move on. When a warrior becomes discontent with his chief, he cannot be counted on to fight for him. The Blue Jackets failed to appreciate the sense of this. If one of their men left, they hunted him down, then treated him to a despicable death. They called this “discipline.”
* * *
Since that the first day of our being in Medicine Lodge, the generals had come to blame White Bear as the cause of every unnerving fracas. The promised wagons bringing food and gifts were nowhere to be seen on the horizon and the number of daily fracases, many of them generated by the Arapahos and Cheyennes, were mounting up. Still they blamed White Bear. Now there was the added insult of his beating up seven of their best officers. Never mind that these seven officers most certainly had it coming; the generals viewed White Bear as a threat to the peace negotiations and were eager to cut him down. But considering his importance in the Kiowa Nation, the generals had no idea how to discredit him in the eyes of the other chiefs of the Nations.
During the course of the next days, White Bear had completely forgotten Skywalker’s warning. To be honest, everyone had. Much of the problem with any of Skywalker’s warnings was his delivery. Unlike other Owl Doctors who practiced the dramatic along with their seer’s craft, Skywalker’s tone when prophesying bleak tidings was much too mild. Knowing this better than anyone, White Bear really should have known that the carefully measured words Skywalker spoke were intensely important. But, being a dramatic fellow himself, White Bear was too often more impressed by the Owl Doctors who shook rattles in his face and carried on in a frenzy. Skywalker never once acted like that. He simply said what he had to say and left it to the hearer to make his own choice. Which is exactly why White Bear, quite alone and riding home from the Cheyenne’s camp, forgot what Skywalker had said.
Murder at Medicine Lodge Page 4