Tylor’s gut was starting to feel that squirmy unease.
Singing Lark nodded to herself, as if in decision. She turned, staring thoughtfully at him. Laying the rifle across her lap, she said and signed: “I don’t want to be Newe woman. I want to scout. To hunt.” She tapped the rifle and said, “Shoot rifle. You let? You not make me Newe woman?”
So that was it. Tylor had noticed that the Shoshoni women acted nothing like Singing Lark did, seeming to dismiss her outright. They did the camp work, attending to the chores. He was Singing Lark’s way out. But at what price?
“What about . . .” He made the sign for “copulate.”
“Yokog,” she said, gave the sort of nervous shrug that hinted that it was an unpleasant inevitability.
“Yes, well, I’m not so keen on it myself,” he told her, laughing at himself. “I shouldn’t be. Girls are married as young as twelve back in the settlements. But after being married to Hallie, after living with a woman?” He shook his head.
“Married?”
“Nakweekkante newe? Married people? Yes. Yokog? No,” he told her.
Her lips twitched, that old sparkle of amusement back in her eyes. Her smile was like a beam of light. “Yes. I hunt? Scout? Shoot?”
“Yes.”
“Deal.” She stuck her hand out, mimicking the way that Cunningham made the gesture.
Tylor took it, shook, saying “Nanakweehennewe.” Married couple.
“Gwee,” she told him back. And, eyes alight, she tapped the rifle. “Go shoot. Now.”
“Yes, Mrs. Tylor,” he told her. “Damn, I’m already henpecked.”
She gave him a questioning look, then literally bounced to her feet, asking, “Hinni?”
“Nothing, my dear.”
But, by trying to get him and the girl out of one mess, what in hell kind of trouble had he created for them now?
CHAPTER 21
Tylor sat in the dying light of day, desperately trying to read his copy of Caesar. Around him, the camp was abuzz, people staring openly at him, whispering behind their hands as if that wasn’t as blatant as out-and-out yelling, “He married Singing Lark!”
Tylor snapped the book closed and rubbed his hot and embarrassed face. He felt like exploding, but what did he do? Gray Bear, not to mention Singing Lark, had made it more than plain that, according to Shoshoni law, they were man and wife.
He wasn’t sure where Singing Lark had disappeared to, having packed her robes and belongings, and moved them over next to Tylor’s.
Only Aspen Branch, the old shaman, had approached, a beaming smile on her old lips. “This is good, yes. You treat her right.”
“Ma’am,” Tylor had told her, “I promise you I will not take advantage of that little girl.”
She’d had no idea what he’d said, but seemed to read his most erstwhile sincerity. The gaping grin still dominating her face, she’d reached out, patted his shoulder with an age-gnarled hand, and said, “She has puha you know.”
Tylor had nodded, all the while his guts being in an uproar.
So, what was he going to do when night fell? The girl had made a point of putting her bedding next to his. For the moment Tylor stared at it with dread, as if the rolled buffalo robe she slept in were some sort of hideous and malignant monster. Her parfleche might have been filled with water moccasins, or leprosy, given the threat it suddenly posed.
“Married, huh, coon?” Cunningham called as he strode into the camp, his saddle under one arm, rifle and bridle under the other. The tall Kentucky hunter had a lascivious grin on his bearded face, evil merriment in his eyes.
“Will, this just keeps getting worse. I was trying to make amends. Thought I’d give her a gift. Show her I wasn’t an inconsiderate brute. I even took Gray Bear with me, you know, to make sure there were no misunderstandings.”
Cunningham dropped his tack, laid his long Pennsylvania rifle carefully against the log that Tylor leaned back against. Then he lowered his lanky body to recline next to Tylor. “Fancy bit of work that, catching a young’un like her.”
“Stop it.” Tylor leaned his head back, taking a deep breath. “I feel like an idiot.”
“That’s a might bit of an accomplishment for an educated gentleman planter. Went to Oxford, you say? Fancy place for larnin’ and all. And with yer copy of Caesar in yer hands, to boot.” The hunter paused. “Peer’s they didn’t teach ye nuthin of sense, coon.”
“What am I going to do, Will?”
“Tylor, think about whar ye are. Look around.”
“I see bur oak, cottonwoods starting to change colors, pretty scenery, and a lot of Shoshoni looking at me like I’m some sort of bug. A predator who showed up to feed on one of their defenseless little girls.”
“What I’m trying to get across t’ yer thick-headed way o’ thinking is that we ain’t back east no more. This ain’t high and mighty North Carolina whar ye’s a landed gentry. This is their world. Their ways. And even back east, girls marry young. If’n they hit twenty, twenty-one, they’s considered old maids.”
Tylor pulled his beard, nodding. “Had a neighbor, James Sutherland. His plantation was ten miles down the road . . . fifteen hundred acres in cotton and tobacco. Forty slaves. Nice mansion. Was kin to some sort of lord back in England. He was in his late forties when his wife died. Had grown children. When he remarried, it was to a twelve-year-old girl. You should have heard the tavern talk, the jokes at that poor girl’s expense. And worse, the quips and barbs, the ribald winks, that passed behind Sutherland’s back.”
“I can imagine.” Cunningham pulled out his pipe, cutting tobacco from a carrot to load it.
“As if that little girl Sutherland married had a clue of what she wanted in life, or if she even wanted to be married at all. When did she ever have a chance to find herself, Will? To even know who she wanted to be? And at that age, to be bundled into an old man’s bed? I often wonder what her wedding night was like, and cringe at what she endured.” Tylor paused. “I will not subject Singing Lark to such crude exploitation.”
“So, ye gonna divorce the girl? Better do it quick, coon, ’cause the sun’s slanting down t’ the west.”
“I do that, and I’ll humiliate Singing Lark. As heartless an act as that would be, I wouldn’t blame Gray Bear, Five Strikes, or any of the rest of them if they walked over and caved my skull in.”
“Care for the gal, eh?”
“I really do. She’s precious, Will. I’ll do anything to keep her safe. Most of all, I don’t want to see her hurt.”
“Tylor, fer a cussed traitor, a fugitive, a treasonous bastard, and a damn landed gentleman, yer actually a decent human being. So, I’ll tell ye. That little gal worships you. Her eyes light up when yer around. So, seems to me, she’s got a say. If she wasn’t sure, why’d she marry ye in the first place?”
“Says she wants to scout, hunt, shoot. That if she married a Shoshoni, she’d have to act like a woman. That, and no one is going to pry that rifle out of her hands. I think she married me to make sure that no one took that rifle back after I gave it to her.”
“Makes this coon wonder who’s using who? But set that aside, what’s she say about when yer both under the robes?”
“She’s made it clear she’s not ready for consummation.”
Cunningham rose, went to the fire, and used a twig to light his pipe. Returning, he settled himself by Tylor, and said, “So, what’s the problem? It’s yer wedding night, right? Seems t’ me that no one would raise so much as an eyebrow if’n ye was to pack up yer robes and hers. Head out beyond camp. No one would know if ye did or didn’t ’cept the two of you.”
“That’s a thought.” Tylor nodded. “Will, I need you to keep an ear open. If any of the Shoshoni think I’m doing anything to hurt that girl, you tell me so I can fix it. I don’t want any of them to think I’m taking advantage.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Good. I have to be the caretaker, the mature and responsible one.”
CHAPTER 22
For the time being, life was good. The leaves were turning on the bur oak and cottonwoods, falling like yellow flakes as the mild west wind eased them from their branches. Tan grasses, cured hard and dry, rustled in the breeze. The skies had been remarkable—a crystalline and eternal blue overhead. From the high places, the plumes of distant range fires could be seen, and they were up in the north. Most likely the Crow burning buffalo range.
That no one was burning the Powder River Basin reassured Gray Bear. Normally the grasslands were burned every ten to fifteen years to clear them of old grass and the influx of sagebrush, greasewood, and woody plants. Burning ensured that next spring lush fresh grass and succulent flowers would spring from the ash-rich soil. New growth that would bring in great herds of bison. Let the ranges go too long, and the herds would migrate out of an area, into another territory where the people were better stewards of the land.
But there was another reason to set range fires. One did it when in enemy country to destroy critical winter pasture. Ensure that the bison had to go elsewhere to find winter grass. Hopefully to the Shoshoni winter range. It was a trade-off. That range would be lush come spring. But it might starve the enemy in the short term.
Fire could be used to drive the bison, when the herds were downwind and wind was high. At that time, riders towing burning shocks of grass behind their horses would try and incinerate a whole range, hoping to drive the bison out of the enemy’s country and back into their own.
And fire was a weapon. Sometimes, if the wind was strong enough and the fire moved fast enough, it was possible to catch an enemy camp by surprise: scatter their horse herds, burn their curing meat and their lodges before they could escape. Ruin the winter hunt and send the enemy broken and fleeing for some other refuge, perhaps among distant relatives, who might also be short of winter food stocks. And, obviously, the hope was to burn the people themselves.
That Gray Bear could see no plumes in the Powder River Basin left him with a feeling of contentment. It hinted that the basin was empty of people. At least for the moment. He’d lived too long to think that this would last.
It didn’t mean that he took any of it for granted, either. The moody Five Strikes, Turns His Back, and Walks Too Fast shared scouting duty, taking turns watching from the high and forested peak just to the south. From that vantage every approach to the camp was visible.
Life was good enough that his small band of people could involve themselves in their own drama. Nothing too divisive, but just good enough for prime and entertaining gossip.
First, of course, there was John Tylor and Singing Lark. The notion that she’d consented to marry a Taipo was downright shocking. When she could have had any Newe man she’d wanted? That was gist for hours of whispered discussion . . . so long as Singing Lark was out of earshot.
And, of course, the newlyweds had been spied upon. They slept in separate blankets. What could be wrong with the Taipo that he wasn’t warming his wean in her ta’i? Did John Tylor have a problem?
The women, in particular, wondered if his wean was broken or soft; maybe it wasn’t capable of matuhu-pekkah. Or was it just that the white man didn’t know how to engage in something as simple as yokog? And maybe they didn’t. It was ventured that no one had even seen a female Taipo, let alone heard of one, which begged the question of how they reproduced.
The men thought it might be Singing Lark, that she wasn’t smart enough to slip her hands into his pants. If she’d stroke her fingers under his two noyo, they’d tighten and his wean would rise. Red Moon Man declared that not even a dead man could keep from matuhu-pekkah when a woman stroked his eggs like that.
Next on the list for conversation was Will Cunningham. Red Moon Man—to the tall Taipo’s sorrow—had moved his bed into Whistling Wren’s lodge. No secrets there. From the sounds issuing from their lodge, there was enough yokog to make up for the lack of it in Tylor and Singing Lark’s blankets.
Other events of note included Gray Bear’s, Kestrel Wing’s, and Walks Too Fast’s first hunt with rifles. Cunningham had carefully orchestrated it. He had laid out an ambush, hidden each hunter in a steep-walled drainage so that they had a clear shot. Told them where to aim, calmed them as the bison walked past their hiding place. Then let them shoot.
Afterward, the whole camp dedicated itself to the butchering, skinning, and curing of the meat. The hides were staked out. Twin Sun Woman, Whistling Wren, and the youngsters had pitched in with the fleshing. Singing Lark was gone someplace with John Tylor—a fact that was a topic of considerable biting debate given that she ought to be acting like a responsible married woman and bending her back to the work.
For two days after the kill they’d feasted, smoked and dried meat, repaired their gear, and watched the horses recover from the long ride. Life on the Pretty River was indeed good.
Gray Bear was sitting in camp, enjoying the sunshine. The day was warm, and he had stripped down to a breechcloth. It was relaxing to just sit back and feed the hawk. The bird had recovered enough that they were able to remove the splint, knowing that if left for too long, the joint might fix. Then the bird would never fly again.
“How about that, my friend?” Gray Bear offered the hawk another strip of meat. He had to be careful. Any lack of attention and the bird would take a piece of finger along with the treat.
Overhead an eagle was circling on the thermals.
“You’ll be back up there soon, little one. When you do, you need to tell your brothers. ‘I was rescued by a Taipo, and the People made me well again.’ ”
Across from him, Twin Sun Woman carried in a load of firewood, dropping it next to the big central hearth. She walked over and settled herself respectfully to one side, looking up at the eagle.
“Kestrel Wing is curious. He wants to know what you’re going to do about the rifle that Tylor gave Singing Lark. The aitta belonged to the people. It wasn’t the Taipo’s to give away.”
“This is a problem,” Gray Bear agreed. “I mentioned it to Tylor. He said he’d make it right, offered his half of the trade he has. But then he pointed out that Singing Lark did her share to make and tan those hides we traded for the aitta. That’s a valid point. She scouted the bison, helped skin the calves, worked as hard as all the rest of us to tan them. Then she was the one who first found the Taipo.”
“You know why she’s been missing?”
He shot her a look. The hawk screamed, figuring Gray Bear wasn’t paying enough attention to giving the bird scraps of meat.
“She’s out there during her hunni. Doesn’t want anyone to know,” declared Twin Sun Woman.
“That’s her business. It would only be ours if she were here acting in a way that tainted us with her woman’s blood. Yes, we’ve got a proper menstrual lodge.” He pointed at the brush-covered wickiup downstream. “If she were here, I’m sure she’d use it.”
“You give that girl too much leeway. You know she’s just using him to get her own way. She’s got the stupid Taipo wrapped around her finger. She got him to give her an aitta. He’s teaching her how to shoot it. Letting her get away with acting like an irresponsible girl. And what does he get out of it? Nothing! She’s not even sharing his robes like a responsible wife should. And where are they? Gone. Constantly. Out there.” She waved at the distant hills.
“Maybe she and Tylor have been gone so much because they’re tired of having people spying on them? Maybe they want to be alone to get comfortable with each other?”
“Doesn’t the Taipo know that he’s a laughing stock? People pity him because he lets her exploit him like he was a fool.” Twin Sun Woman gave Gray Bear a skeptical look. “But then, he isn’t the only man who lets Singing Lark get away with any kind of irresponsibility. How could you let her trick the poor dumb Taipo into marrying her like that?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a trick. Though I’m not sure that Tylor knew what he was getting into.”
“She using him. It’s a disgrace.”
Gray Bear sig
hed. “They like each other. They’re happy spending time together. As to what goes on in their bed, I know it’s a scandal that they’re not sharing the robes. But it’s their business.”
“Doesn’t she know that by refusing him, she humiliates him before the people?”
“My understanding is that Tylor thinks yokog with a woman her age is somehow disrespectful.”
“Why? She’s a married woman. She’s had her moon. That’s what has everyone tied up in knots. A responsible woman would insist her husband . . .” Twin Sun Woman threw her hands up. “Why do I even try? Listen. You are Tylor’s friend. He trusts you. When they come back, would you have a talk with him? Explain that even though he’s new to our ways, he might want to act like a responsible man?”
Gray Bear caught himself before he made a face. “Yes, yes, if it will make everyone happy.”
“They’ve been gone a long time. Don’t you worry about them?”
He smiled. “Aspen Branch says Singing Lark has puha in her soul.”
“Puha and menstruating women are a bad combination. You know it as well as I do.”
“Aspen Branch says that only puhagan, who are men, say these things. And she makes a point. How many fertile women go out and seek puha from Water Ghost Woman, or ask guidance from the nynymbi?”
“Asking guidance from the little people isn’t like . . .” She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know. The girl is trouble, that’s all.”
He chuckled. “We wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for Singing Lark, for Aspen Branch’s dream. We would all be dead somewhere out in the grass east of the Black Hills. Singing Lark acted as my chickadee. She was the one who cast her eyes up, saw the way to go. She was the one who led us safely here so that you could complain about her.”
“Perhaps. It’s just that . . .”
The pounding of horse’s hooves could be heard.
Flight of the Hawk: The Plains Page 10