“I don’t want to share him. I have to share him right here in the Wasp band.”
“Sometimes there are things in life you have no choice about. Wanderer is one of them. He’s special, and he has many responsibilities already for one so young. He must go back to his own band and to the Staked Plains for a while.”
“Why is he special?”
“Some just are. All our men strive to be great warriors. All of them are brave. But the coyote can never be a wolf, nor the hawk an eagle. Wanderer is a wolf among coyotes and an eagle among hawks. He won’t forget you, little one. And you have to be worthy of his friendship.”
“I’ll try.” Naduah snuffled back a large, wet sob.
“Smile for me.” Medicine Woman tilted her granddaughter’s chin up and smiled down at her. “That’s good. We’ll be camping with Old Owl’s band soon. We’ll spend the winter with them. You’ll see your brother.” Naduah’s smile widened.
“When?”
“Soon.”
John Parker, Bear Cub, sat huddled under his buffalo robe in front of his grandfather’s lodge, watching Old Owl work on a new bow for him. He was growing so fast that after six months with the People, Cub’s bow was too short. It was late afternoon, and the autumn light was failing. The two of them were sitting outside the lodge to take advantage of what rays the sun could send through the thick, swollen gray clouds. Old Owl’s eyes had once been like a hawk’s, but they were failing him now.
Old Owl had measured the length of the bow that morning before Cub had left on his daily excursion. He had made the boy stand still while he laid the Osage orange sapling along his leg and marked it at his waist. He had been shaping it all day, patiently whittling it into the desired taper. Now Cub was back, and as he worked, Old Owl talked. It was a monologue that went on whenever he and Cub were alone. And often when they weren’t. Cub listened carefully.
“Always look for winter wood, Cub. It doesn’t split when it dries. Orangewood is best, like this here. But it comes from far to the north, and it’s not as easy to get. A young ash that’s been killed by a prairie fire makes a fine bow. But elm, cedar, willow, dogwood, mulberry, they’ll all do. Trim the bark off the staves when you collect them, and rub them with fat. Tie them in bundles and hang them at the top of the lodge, over the fire. The smoke seasons them. And kills the insects in them.”
“How many sticks in each bundle?”
“Oh, ten or twelve. Shape it like this, carving outward from the center, the grip. Then smooth it and polish it with sandstone when you finish.” He rubbed more fat onto the stave and held one end of the tapered wood over the fire until it was very hot. He grunted as he braced the end under his moccasin and forced it into a curve. He went on talking as he held it there.
“When this cools the curve will be permanent. The hard part is getting the two sides to curve exactly the same. Sometimes you have to reheat it and start over. The important thing is to be patient, and not stop until it’s exactly the way you want it. Never settle for less than the best, unless you’re desperate and in a hurry. Your life depends on your weapons. And more important, your family’s lives depend on them.
“Be sure the grip is thick enough or the bow will kick when you shoot it. And the cord will burn your wrist.” Cub held up his wrist to show his grandfather the wide leather band he had made in case that happened. Old Owl reached out and turned Cub’s wrist to see the band from all sides. “Good. But if you burnish the edges with a hot rock, they won’t rub you. Where was I?”
“You were talking about making the grip thick enough.”
“Yes. And the ends of the bow. They should be the width of your little finger. Hold one out here so I can measure.” Cub obliged, then reached under his robe and pulled out a small bag from among those dangling at his waist. He poured some round, dark pellets into the palm of his hand.
“I found these today, Grandfather.”
“What are they?”
“Deer scats, of course. You said to bring things like this to you.”
“That’s right. I did.” He peered owlishly over at them, squinting to focus. “Where did you pick them up?”
“In a meadow a mile from the river.”
“When did you pick them up?”
“In the middle of the afternoon.”
“Then we know they’re at least two or three hours old. How old do you think they were when you found them?”
Cub picked one apart with his fingernail. It crumbled easily.
“There was no dew this morning to wet them so they would have dried out faster. But I’d say they were left there yesterday.”
“And how big an animal dropped them?”
Cub studied the pellets intently, as though deciphering a secret code. “Medium sized.”
“Was it a healthy animal?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’re right. What kind of grass was it eating?”
Cub separated the bits of the broken scat. “It looks like the short thick grass that grows by the river.”
“Were there any other deer droppings nearby?”
“Yes, smaller ones. That means it was probably a mother with a fawn, doesn’t it?”
“Probably. Yes. Were the scats piled up or scattered?”
“They were piled up.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“That the deer were grazing quietly and not being chased.”
“Were there any other tracks nearby?” And so the questioning went. It was almost dark when Old Owl made the bowstring, working by the feel of it between his gnarled fingers and by the light from the fire between him and Cub. He picked up a piece of buffalo sinew about eighteen inches long and split off two strands with his teeth. He soaked them in his mouth, then with his palm he rolled them rapidly on his thigh, pulling back his buffalo robe to bare it. He placed a third piece between the first two, rolled it quickly, then added another and another. When he finished he had a string of even diameter, three times the length of the bow. He folded it into thirds and twisted it into a three-ply cord. He knotted the ends to prevent raveling and tied it between two stakes to keep it stretched as it dried.
Then he rose, creaking at his joints, and began kicking dust over the fire. Cub helped him, scattering the burning logs. A soft glow and low voices came from the lodge, along with the smell of stewing meat.
“Grandfather, may I wear your wolf robe? The one you used when you were a wolf scout.”
“It’s old, Cub. I don’t even remember where it is.” Old Owl found it hard to say no to his grandson.
“It’s in a case way back under your bed, against the wall of the lodge. I saw Prairie Dog put it there.”
Perhaps small children should be taken on raids, mused Old Owl wryly. When motivated they had an uncanny ability to find what they wanted to find.
“You’re too young.”
“No, I’m not. I’ll be careful with it. I want to practice being a wolf scout.”
“Can you sit still for hours without twitching a muscle?”
“I’m practicing that.”
“How many days have you spent watching wolves?”
Cub should have expected that question, but it caught him off guard. “None. But I’ve seen lots of them.”
“Can you tell a male wolf from a female by their pelts, and by the small differences in their bodies? And can you do it while they’re far away and running? Can you tell if a wolf is tired or fresh, hungry or full by looking at his ears? Do you know if he’s on a serious trail or just traveling, or if he’s going to kill the elk or play with it?
“Do you know about wolves and ravens? Did you know, for instance, that wolves and ravens play together, tease each other? I’ve seen them play tag like children, wolves and ravens. You’ll often find ravens near a pack, perhaps looking for prey for them, perhaps waiting for them to make a kill so they can eat when the wolves are through. Do you know how wolves hunt? Do you know their strategies for hunting different kinds of game?
Do you, Cub?” Old Owl peered sternly at Cub in the gloom.
“No, Grandfather.”
“Then how do you expect to imitate a wolf? When you can answer any questions about wolves that I ask you, you may borrow the skin. It brought me through many dangers. I am invisible in it. It is very powerful. I can’t lend it casually.”
“I understand. Grandfather.” He looked crestfallen.
“Tomorrow we’ll go on a hunt, just you and I. And test your new bow. We’ll shoot a grizzly bear and bring it home to throw in your mother’s pot.” Old Owl hated to deny Cub anything. He put his hand on the child’s shoulder as the two of them moved toward the lodge door, a bright yellow sun in the general glow of the tent. They did many things together, and they were a strange pair, the small, stocky, towheaded boy and the shriveled old man, browned and wrinkled like weathered leather.
“Pahayuca’s Wasps will winter with us. You’ll see your sister, Naduah.”
“I’ll be glad to see her.” It was the first time anyone had spoken to him of her. And he had never asked.
A wolf’s howl followed them inside, perhaps mocking Cub. Perhaps inviting him to come learn about his ways.
“Don’t call me John. They named me Weelah, Bear Cub, because I thrashed a hundred when I got here.”
“All at once?” Naduah squatted in the dust so she could look her brother in the eye. Smoke peered around her and Dog studied the ground for fleas.
“No, of course not. But some of them were bigger than I and one time I took on two of them at once. They kept bothering me, you know.” The children spoke in the language of the People, already comfortable in it. Cub was stretched on his belly across the laps of his foster mother, Tasura, That’s It, his foster great-aunt, Tahdeko, Prairie Dog, Old Owl’s wife, and Wild Sage, Santa Ana’s wife. Each of them had a pair of tweezers and they were going over Cub’s bare hindquarters, picking out prickly pear spines. As they worked they gossiped among themselves.
Cub was as brown as a hickory nut all over his tough, scratched, stocky little body, except from his ankles down, where his moccasins protected his feet. His hair was as pale as Naduah’s, but curlier, and his mother’s freckles spattered like paint across his snub nose and cheeks. He wore a leather band around his head in a futile attempt to control the curls that tumbled into his eyes, many of them too short to be caught into his stubby braids.
“Ouch!” Cub twisted around to glare at Wild Sage. She had flicked him hard on a haunch with her fingers.
“Then stop wriggling like a tadpole, or we’ll never finish here. I have to start the evening meal soon. There are guests to feed.”
In spite of the fact that it was November, the women wore dresses of light deerskin. The whites called weather like this “Indian summer” because the Comanches took advantage of the warmth and the full harvest moon to raid before cold weather locked them in. Naduah could hear Buffalo Piss now, riding through the huge winter encampment with his hand drum. He was beating out an invitation to the young men to join him in one last dash to the Texas settlements before winter closed in.
“What happened to your rear end, Tahmah, Brother?” Cub looked a little sheepish, which didn’t happen often.
“I was relieving myself and didn’t notice the cactus.”
“That’s what you get for running around with no clothes on like a Tuhkanay, a Wichita. What if it had been a rattlesnake? Where would they have put the tourniquet?” They both giggled, and Sage flicked him again.
“You look like a Tuhkanay yourself, Sister. Hey, I have my own pony. Wait’ll you see him.”
“I have one too. And she can cover yours with dust.”
“We’ll race then, but you won’t have a chance. Old Owl gave me mine and helped me train him.”
“Pahayuca gave me Wind and Wanderer helped me train her.” Wanderer’s name jolted them into the past, to the journey they had made together.
“I was sorry to hear about Wanderer’s friend. He Was nice to me. I suppose he had to sell me. He had no wife to raise me.”
“John. Cub. Do you ever want to go back?” Without thinking, Naduah changed to English for privacy.
“I did for a while.”
Wild Sage poked him in the ribs. “Speak as one of the People, Cub. You have no secrets.”
“Not until he starts looking for women to poke his lance into.” That’s It rarely laughed. But when she was around, others did. Wild Sage and Prairie Dog were laughing as they set Cub on his feet. Wild Sage regarded him with a practiced eye.
“He has a long time to wait before that thorn grows into a lance.”
Cub rubbed his itchy buttocks and grinned at the women, arching his back to flaunt the item under discussion.
“When I find the right target my lance will be ready.”
Still laughing and chatting, the women waddled off toward Prairie Dog’s lodge to start cooking for the friends and relatives of Pahayuca’s band, the plague of locusts as That’s It called them. Cub ducked into That’s It’s tent and came out carrying leggings, breechclout, and a small, fringed shirt of soft deerskin. He dressed as he talked, steadying himself on Naduah’s shoulder and hopping while he pulled his moccasins on. He tugged his shirt down over his head as they started toward the pasture where the ponies were kept. They spoke English for the first time in many months.
“I felt low for a while. Especially when the boys tried to bully me. And I missed mother and father a lot. But now I don’t have time to think about them much. No one bothers me. They all think I’m wonderful. Something new, you know. I can do whatever I want. Hunting is more fun than farming, I know that for sure. I have lots of friends and we play all the time. I like it here.”
“I know. I have friends too, and my family loves me. Do you think our real family will come after us?”
“Seems like if they were going to, they would have by now.”
“What would you do if they did?”
Cub studied the ground and kicked at clumps of grass as they walked.
“I don’t know. I might hide. I’d probably hide. The fort was so dull compared to this.” With a sweep of his arm Cub took in the lodges, the plains, the horizon, the sky, the herd of grazing ponies, the freedom. “I don’t think I want to be a white man again.”
“Do you see Cousin Rachel very often?”
“No. Her family left a month ago and went to live with a band further north. I’m glad they went. I think she was crazy, Cindy, and they treated her badly. It was embarrassing to be related to her, although no one here knows I am.”
The silence was painful as they thought of the trip from the ravaged fort on the Navasota. Naduah finally spoke.
“I’ll race you to the pasture. First one to reach the clump of three cotton woods wins.”
Rachel huddled under the shabby buffalo robe, trying to protect herself and her new baby from the howling wind that blasted gusts of snow around the corner of the tent. Above her, the black tree limbs clawed at the slate-gray December sky, and a flock of crows blew across the clouds. The baby was crying so hard he refused to nurse. His pitiful, weak wails could scarcely be heard over the moan of the wind.
Inside the lodge it was warm, even if it did stink. At least she could have crept close to the fire. Maybe the heat would have eased the pain in the baby’s bowels. But Terrible Snows was too poor to have two lodges. When his cronies came by to smoke and brag and laugh like a herd of braying mules, he threw Rachel out as though she were one of the curs that slunk through camp.
A Little Less, Terrible Snows’ mother, could go visiting other women. Even her daughter, Mountain, with her hideous, mutilated nose, had a friend she could shelter with. But Rachel knew she would be there outside the door of the lodge, trying to warm her baby, long into the night. She had tried to leave once before, to find a niche somewhere out of the wind. The beating Terrible Snows gave her when he found her was still painful and the bruises had not yet faded.
The cold began to soak through the robe, as thoug
h it were being saturated with icy water. She could feel it on her shoulders and flowing down her back. Snow was piling in small drifts around her thin moccasins stuffed with itchy, dry grass. Her toes were numb, like aching clubs at the ends of her feet. She wished she could go snuggle down into the pile of sleeping dogs, heaped like discarded hides against the side of the tent.
She thought of the old woman who had helped her when her time came to give birth. Her hands had been gentle, and she had given the baby a small rabbit-fur robe to be wrapped in. Rachel had fought A Little Less for that robe like a mother badger defending her young, her teeth bared in a snarl.
But the robe and the old buffalo hide weren’t enough. Rachel tried not to think of what the temperature must be, and how low it would go before the night was over. She had to find shelter, no matter what Terrible Snows did to her. She stood, and almost fell with the cramps in her legs. With one thin hand she pulled the tattered robe closer as the wind tried to tear it from her. Cradling the baby in her other arm and pushing against the wind, she started toward the lodge of Tasiwu Wanauhu, Buffalo Robe, the old midwife. Ice crunched under her feet, cutting through her moccasin soles like shards of glass.
She wavered at the door of the lodge with its softly glowing fire shining through the walls and the sound of low conversation drifting out. Then, knowing she had no choice, and with a gust of wind pushing her from behind, she shouldered aside the hide flap and stepped through the opening. Crumpling at Buffalo Robe’s feet, she clutched the hem of her dress and looked up at her with pleading eyes.
The family moved to make room for her at the fire, and the old woman, clucking like a worried hen, gently placed a warm blanket around her. Her daughter handed Rachel a horn cup of steaming broth, made with a pinch of powdered cornmeal and pemmican for flavoring. The children clustered around their mother, looking around her skirts at Terrible Snows’ slave with the shiny, button eyes of a litter of field mice.
Taking the screaming baby, his tiny hands feebly flailing and his face crumpled like a crepe myrtle bud, Buffalo Robe rocked him and sang to him. She used her free hand to mix powdered star grass and blazing root into a bitter tonic for colic. With firm hands that had doctored scores of children, she poured the medicine down the baby’s throat before he knew what was happening. Taking a deep breath, he made a fresh assault on their ears. But as the terrible pain in his intestines eased, he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 25