by RW Krpoun
“It sounds as if being a widow is a desirable post,” Jeff observed carefully.
“It is not, as a whole,” Dreams shrugged. “A man can only have two wives, and our many foes ensure that once above a certain age there ends up being more women than men. A widow receives help from the entire clan, but there is much of our life which is denied to a woman without a husband.”
“Can they remarry?”
“Yes, but most end up as junior wives.”
“Why has Quails not remarried?”
“She loved her husband a bit overmuch,” Dreams said sadly. “Also she is sharp-tongued and often over-bold, as you saw. And as a Wise Woman she suffers few of the restrictions set upon other widows. But I expect some young buck will win her sooner or later.”
“So you have two wives?” Derek asked.
“Me? No, only a proven warrior may take a second wife. Truly exceptional warriors may take a third, although in our clan only Breaks Horns has earned that right, and he would not have taken a second wife had not his first wife insisted.”
“His wife insisted?” Derek’s eyebrows shot up.
“The women do most of the work, and in camp Breaks is lazier than most,” Dreams confided. “She needed the extra help. I expect the two will gang up on him to take a third soon. His first two are sisters, and they have a cousin who is of age soon. Breaks is a dull fellow, but women find him attractive and his babies are healthy and strong. Whereas I am wise, charming, and willing to help about the camp, yet I had trouble securing a single wife.”
“In part because you like to drink a great deal,” Quails observed as she urged her captured pony alongside the healer.
“I am neither violent nor vulgar when I drink,” Dreams pointed out with dignity.
“Good points, especially in a man who drinks as much as you do,” the young woman noted drily.
“You can see why there has been no great urgency amongst the young men in regards to ending her widowhood,” Dreams noted pointedly to Jeff, who grinned as Quails punched her uncle on the shoulder.
“Will you stay with us a while?’ Quails asked.
“If you’ll have us,” Shad nodded. “We could use a rest, and we can learn things from you. We have met few Celts in our journeys.”
“Violent journeys,” Quails observed darkly. “You carry more bullets than food.”
“Quails does not appreciate the warrior spirit,” Dreams advised. “She is one of those who oppose the old ways.”
“Strange how those who oppose the old ways are all widows,” she shot back. “A warrior’s honor never kept me warm on a cold night.”
“The Horde cares nothing for your comfort or discomfort,” Dreams pointed out mildly.
“We must fight,” Quails conceded. “But must we make a holy thing of it? Breaks Horns lives to fight, and the young men ape him. For every raid to recover a captive or stolen horses, three are mounted just for the glory of it.”
“I leave the business of fighting to the warriors,” Dreams shrugged. “I am no fighter, just an old man who does not receive the respect he deserves.”
“You are both loved and alive,” Quails flipped a hand dismissively.
Dreams shook his head. “A girl’s heart is warm and tender as a flower’s petals, but with each passing season as a woman their hearts turn to stone and their tongues to cactus.”
Quails rolled her eyes.
Late in the second day the two groups reached the campsite of three clans of Roman Nose Celts. The camp was on both sides of a broad stream, very nearly a river in width although it was shallow enough for a grown man to wade. Hundreds of horses grazed on the lush prairie grass under the watchful gaze of herd boys in their early teens, and what the Black Talons would call tepees but which the Celts called lodges stretched for nearly a mile along the creek.
A sudden explosion of mounted warriors burst from amongst the lodges, riding hell-bent for leather, brandishing weapons and howling. Shad had his shotgun out and was bringing it to bear when Dreams leaned out of his saddle to lay a cautionary hand on his arm. “It is a celebration, my friend. Breaks Horns’ party carries a victory totem and our folk are happy to see a success without lives lost.”
Shad shoved the shotgun back into its saddle scabbard. “How do they know no one died?”
“The shape and decoration of the totem. It is important to display it thusly as Breaks is a famous warrior and men from two clans followed him in his pursuit.”
The mob from the camp circled the returning group, whooping, and indulging in demonstrations of riding skill. And raising a literal fog of dust. Breaks Horns continued to lead his group at a walk, and much to Shad’s surprise there were no collisions despite the encircling group tightening the circle well beyond what the Shootist considered a safe distance.
Finally they reached the lodges and the welcoming horde peeled off. “There will be greetings,” Dreams advised the Black Talons. “Patience is required, as the elders set great store by speeches.”
“Jeff..,” Shad began.
“I got this,” the Jinxman assured him.
It took nearly an hour for Quails to tell her story and various elders of the clans to comment, welcome the Black Talons, and praise Breaks Horns’ raiding party. That worthy gestured for his brother to handle the responses and sat motionless on his horse, a grim, brooding figure.
Shad quit listening five minutes after the start and watched the crowd instead. They were dressed much as the Plains Tribes had been in the books he had read on the subject, except that cloth was as common or more so than buckskin, and there was a lot more metal in evidence, from arrowheads to lance points, knives, and decorations. There was a sizeable percentage of mixed breeds in the crowd, but that was not a surprise as Dreams had told them that the Roman Nose encountered both Tek and the Horde in their seasonal travels, and as a group were concerned about being able to field sufficient numbers. They also understood that it was important to bring in fresh bloodlines. There were more guns than a Plains tribe would have mustered in the 1870s, and these were well-maintained, something that the Plains Indians had not understood in their heyday. Most were smoothbore muzzle-loading flintlocks, but there were a number of breechloaders and even repeaters.
Overall the Celts looked healthy and well-fed, and their camp was tidy and reasonable well-organized. They might be nomads following the bison herds, but they were not a primitive people.
Finally the declamation died out, a pipe was passed amongst the Black Talons for a ceremonial puff, and the four gunmen were escorted to a lodge whose floor was stacked with buffalo hides and bright trade blankets.
“How cold do they think its going to get?” Fred asked, surveying the interior.
“What the hell was in that pipe?” Derek spat to clear his mouth. “It tasted like a pinch of tobacco mixed with an ounce of dried chicken shit.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Shad shook his head as he dumped his saddle on the lodge floor and followed it with his small duffle from Durbin. “You guys need a more positive attitude.”
“Bite me.” Derek spat one more time and turned to unsaddling Sundae.
Dreams trudged up with a pretty Celt widow in tow who looked to be a full-blooded member of the tribe. “This is Morning Flower; she will see to your food and her brother will tend to your animals.”
“Its lovely to meet you, Morning Flower,” Jeff leered. “I hope we won’t be too much of a burden for you.”
“I’m gonna go wash my feet,” Shad grabbed a worn towel and a pair of clean socks from his duffle and headed in the direction of the creek.
Derek found the Shootist dozing on the bank, his hat over his eyes, his feet and calves in the water, and a Colt lying on his chest. The shoulder rig was set neatly on the towel by his boots. A dozen yards away a trio of small Celt boys were watching him with interest.
“You awake?”
“I am now,” Shad pushed the hat off his face and blinked at the Alienist. “Do you have a good rea
son, or should I proceed directly to kicking your ass?”
“Feel free to try,” Derek offered, mostly out of bravado, as he sat down a few feet away. “There is going to be a celebration tomorrow night, and we’re honored guests.”
“Great. Tell ’em to put us down for a bunt cake and six bags of chips.” Shad replaced the hat.
“How long are we staying here?”
“I dunno. What do the others say?’
“Fred is asleep and Jeff’s still talking to Morning Flower.”
“So you decided I have to suffer? Can’t you entertain yourself?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Shad laid still for a minute, then sighed and pushed up his hat. “What?”
“What do you mean?”
“Derek, you came here with an agenda, and it has nothing to do with the time you need to make hex sheets.”
The Radio Shack manager frowned at the creek. “I was wondering…maybe we should have a local guide.”
The Shootist raised his head enough to look at Derek. “Seriously? Quails?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s got a kid, Derek. A family, a people, a way of life. Unlike us, she has roots. We’re on an insane quest because we’re morons.”
“Fred has roots.”
“Yeah, and look where its gotten him: in the soup and dragging us along with him. Look, even if she was willing to come along, she can’t leave here. She’s banished.”
“….yeah….”
“Do not suggest to me that you’re thinking about staying behind over a girl you’ve known for about sixty hours.”
“Look, I’m just thinking…”
“Well, quit,” Shad snapped. “At most you’re here for twenty years. Unless the time we spent in the Prison counts. Or the fact we burned off two wards prorates our stay. And what if other people killing Death Lords counts towards our wards? You could get yanked back home in a few months. Don’t forget the Death Lords are after us-you could end up bringing serious trouble down on these people.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t ‘yeah’ me, you horny half-wit. Get your ashes hauled and then see if she’s still the only woman in this plane of existence for you.” When the Alienist didn’t respond the Shootist tried again. “Look, we’ve been abducted again, people are trying to kill us for no rational reason for the third time, we’ve been living hard, sleeping wet, and fighting for our very lives, and most of what we’re fighting isn’t even Human. What you’re feeling is stress, only not post-traumatic because the freakin’ trauma is still underway. You’re looking for something to hold on to, something to give you hope, and that need has locked its sights onto Quails.”
“What gives you hope, Shad?”
The Shootist lifted the Colt off his chest, spun it, and laid it back down. “I may not make it back home, but they’ll know me by the trail of dead I leave in my path.”
“I’m serious.”
“Put your trust in the Lord, Derek. We all are destined for death, and for some right soon. Don’t inflict your sorrows on her, man. Carry your own cross.”
Derek sighed. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Besides, last I heard Kevin Bacon’s marriage is in trouble. We get back, you might have a shot.”
“Screw you,” Derek flopped back onto the grass.
“Too late, the Army did that years ago.”
“She is a nice girl, though.”
“That she is. Got a mouth on her, though.”
“True.” The Alienist stared up at the sky for a while. “I’ll need at least three full days to get my hex sheets to a reasonable level.”
“No problem.”
Morning Flower turned out to be an excellent cook; the Black Talons feasted upon buffalo steaks and ribs and baked wild potatoes. Food was plentiful and the Celts seemed genuinely happy.
The next day Shad wandered about the great camp while Jeff and Derek plied their trades and Fred slept. He had read a great deal about the Plains Indians, and saw many similarities amongst the Celts. The women did the day-to-day work, except tending horses, which was the duty of boys from eight to thirteen or so. Girls helped their mothers with the chores, although the Celt’s simple lifestyle and communal work methods kept the work load from being excessive.
The men hunted, made war, and made preparations for both, but otherwise had few duties in the camp. Given the copious wild game and the endless supply of bison, hunting was not a labor-intensive undertaking.
The Shootist saw Breaks-Horns holding court in a group of warriors, but the big Celt did not acknowledge his presence.
Shad was watching a group of women and girls crafting baskets out of sun-dried reeds when someone called his name. He turned to see Dreams approaching, his face split in a grin. “Hello, Dreams.”
“Good day my friend,” the healer took a seat on the log the Shootist was sitting on. “Are you watching the women or the crafts?”
A little of both,” Shad admitted. “But mostly I’m enjoying something that has nothing to do with my troubles and schemes.”
“There is a great peace in the domestic aspects of life,” Dreams agreed. “Many times I have refilled the waters of my inner self by watching children at play or women going about their simple duties. A healer sees many horrible things, and carries the burden of poor choices and failed skills. As a warrior I’m sure you understand.”
“I do.”
“So, there is to be a great celebration tonight; it was planned some time ago, but now it will include thanks for the safe return of Quails and the prowess of our new friends. We are a simple people who open our hearts readily to anyone who slaughters our hereditary foes.”
Shad grinned. “It is important to have standards.”
“It is.”
“Do your people have many encounters with the Death Lords?”
“The durluk? Seldom, even Breaks Horns avoids them when possible. We have little silver, and even with strong medicine their followers are hard to kill. They use the Horde to do their work against the Celts, as we are too fleet for the walking dead to pursue.”
“We have heard conflicting stories of the Death Lords, the durluk. We are told they are invading, and we are told they are not. What we do know is that they are part of the troubles we face.”
“There are many troubles in the great grassy world,” Dreams sighed. “I consulted with several wise men on this very subject this morning, as it troubled me that the durluk desired a wise woman to sacrifice. I am a healer, and as such I deal not only with the wounds of the body, but wounds of the spirit and threats to the clan as a whole.”
“So what do you know of the durluk?”
“They are a great evil, and minions of yet a greater evil. They are not of this world, but come here to spread despair and fear. And perhaps to destroy the Tek.”
“The Tek? Why them?”
“This we do not know, but the durluk do seem to concentrate upon the pyramid-dwellers. It is a good day when evil battles evil.”
“That it is,” Shad nodded absently, thinking hard.
The Black Talons wore their best for the celebration, and left their guns in their lodge despite Shad’s protests and deep misgivings. They were ushered to what appeared to be favored places at the gathering, which was located in a well-grazed area of prairie with a good view of the setting sun.
Speeches were made by various clan dignitaries and notables on topics ranging from the greatness and history of the Roman Nose to assurances of inter-clan loyalty. Quails, who was sitting with Derek, explained that there was a great deal of political maneuvering within the tribe as a whole to secure favored hunting paths and winter camp sites.
Various heroes were honored, including Breaks Horns (twice, once for a raid against the Tek and second time for a raid against a different tribe of Celts), and the Black Talons. When the Talons were called upon to speak Jeff got up and made a credible effort.
As the sun dipped below the horizon the child
ren were getting restless, so the speeches were brought to an end and the feasting began. Morning Flower was persuaded to sit with Jeff after the Talons had loaded their mess kits, and Shad found himself sitting next to a young widow named Six Deer, a tall girl in her twenties who clearly had at least one Negro grandparent, a mixture that had blended very prettily.
Eating was serious business for the Roman Nose people and there were no attempts at entertainment until the meal was concluded. Bison featured heavily in the menu, but there was also venison, antelope, quail, ducks, and prairie chicken roasted in clay. Baked and fried potatoes, flatbread, various light salads, and dark red beans (of a type unfamiliar to the Talons), which had been slow-cooked with chunks of bison meat, made up the side dishes. Shad was surprised that fish was not on the menu, given that the creek had a thriving population.
When the meal was done (there was no sort of dessert) dancing began. Young warriors in full regalia did a slow, stamping dance in a large circle to a heavy drum beat, acting out various historical and recent victories in bursts of stylized combat. Within that circle wives in buckskin dresses decorated with elk teeth danced in another circle moving opposite to the mens’, executing complex steps in a sort of conga line fashion. Within the wives’ circle was yet another circle, moving the same direction of the mens’, made up of unmarried girls a year or two short of marrying age. The participants in the dance changed with some frequency but the composition of the three rings did not alter.
The veteran warriors stayed within the encircling ranks of spectators, looking on with dignified miens as were suitable to their status and passing clay pots of hard drink amongst themselves. The widows were barred from the dance, and either watched or helped with the cleaning up and tending of children.
Shad quickly realized that Deer wasn’t interested in just watching the dancing; another widow approached Fred, who bowed out citing an existing marriage and quickly entered into a drinking contest with six thirsty warriors fresh from the dancing.