Daughter of the Eagle

by Don Coldsmith

  For a long time she stood gazing at the starry sky, silently in communion with the world and its sometimes puzzling events.

  At last she knelt and opened the rawhide pack. She took out a smooth, fist-sized object and carefully tossed it into the deepest part of the pool. The resounding plunk in the still night produced an echoing plunk from a startled bullfrog in the reeds. A roosting bird fluttered sleepily, and the night was quiet again.

  Methodically Running Eagle removed the rest of her carefully collected cooking stones from the pack. One at a time, the remaining stones followed the first one in a calculated, almost ritualistic ceremony. It was as if she were cutting the last ties to the life that might have been, that of a woman in her own lodge.

  She discarded the last stone and stood for a moment, holding the empty rawhide pack. If anyone had been present to observe, he might have noticed that the face of the warrior woman glistened with tears in the shadowy light of the rising moon.

  21

  During the next few moons a legend was born. Even the far-flung bands of the People gloried in the tales of the warrior woman, Running Eagle.

  The story of her first experience in battle became exaggerated in the recounting almost immediately. It was forgotten that the girl had been one of the minor members of the group, a novice on her first war party. In the minds of the listeners, after a retelling or two, Running Eagle became the leader of the party. She had initiated the attack so swiftly, it was said, that while others still readied their weapons she had already struck the enemy and had killed three men.

  Only slightly less exaggerated were the tales of prowess of her companion, Long Walker. At first some who heard the tale thought that the tall warrior must be her husband or lover. But no, it seemed that the girl had taken vows of chastity. Her warlike efforts were directed at avenging her brother’s death. She had vowed to wreak vengeance on the Head Splitters. As a former warrior sister, she had extended her chastity. There was no clear limit to her vow—perhaps her entire lifetime, it was said. This deepened the mystery of the status of her companion, Long Walker.

  Actually his status was as much a mystery to Long Walker as to anyone else. He had sought out the girl on the day after their return from the pursuit. The two took a long walk up the stream and talked of many things. Patiently the young man tried to dissuade her from her half-formed plans.

  It was no use. It became apparent that she felt such a forceful call of duty that it must come before all else. She only knew that the enemy must be made to realize the folly of assault on the family of Eagle.

  Long Walker exhaled a deep sigh. “Running Eagle,” he said slowly, “you know that I wish you to give up this vow. I know that you are able to avenge your brother. You have proved that.” He paused and sighed again. “If you must do this, I am with you.” He smiled a little wistfully. “We do fight well together,” he added sadly.

  The decision made, it was now time to make plans. Running Eagle quickly outlined her ideas. They could follow the Head Splitters, steal horses, attack small groups, and in general harass the enemy at every opportunity.

  “But Running Eagle,” Long Walker protested, “this is dangerous! We cannot fight the whole Head Splitter nation!”

  “So be it!” she snapped. “I will go. I did not ask your help!”

  Frustrated, knowing the plan to be foolhardy, Long Walker knew also that he could not press his protest too far. If she became too angry at him she would go alone. This must not happen. He must keep his objections quiet enough to avoid angering the girl. Only in this way could he protect her from herself.

  “It is good,” he shrugged resignedly. “We will go.”

  Because Running Eagle’s pledge of vengeance involved her family, the girl felt obliged to talk to her grandfather before starting her plans. That evening she approached his lodge, a little apprehensive and anxious. Heads Off had always been an impressive figure to her, dignified, calm, and aloof. She was almost afraid of him.

  “Grandfather,” she called, tapping on the skin lodge cover, “it is Running Eagle. I would speak with you.”

  In only a moment her grandmother held aside the door skin to admit the girl. The older woman embraced her briefly and motioned to a seat.

  Running Eagle blinked the outside darkness from her eyes as they adjusted to the firelight. Heads Off was seated across the lodge from the doorway, reclining on his willow backrest and smoking his pipe. He nodded in recognition and waited for the girl to speak.

  “Grandfather,” she began hesitantly, “you know that I have been accepted into the Elk-dog Society.”

  He nodded, waiting for the girl to continue.

  “It comes to me that there is no other warrior now in our family, since my brother’s death.”

  Again Heads Off nodded solemnly, grieving, yet apparently puzzled.

  “So,” Running Eagle went on, “it falls to me to avenge him.”

  It seemed a long time while Heads Off took three deliberate puffs on his fragrant pipe. She watched the blue-white smoke rise toward the hole at the lodge’s apex. Finally Heads Off spoke slowly.

  “My daughter, I thought him avenged already. You would do more?”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “What? How long?”

  Rapidly she sketched out her plan—the harassment, ambush, horse stealing. “I would make the Head Splitters regret and repay the debt to our family.”

  The chief nodded again. “This would be very dangerous.”

  “Yes, Grandfather, but it must be. I have vowed vengeance. Long Walker goes with me.”

  “Aiee! I do not know.” Heads Off shook his head in apparent confusion. He turned to his wife.

  “Tall One! Is this the custom of the People? It would not be done in my own tribe.”

  Once again Running Eagle was startled to recall that her grandfather had originally been an outsider. He seemed so much a part of the People now.

  “Not usual, but not unheard of, my husband.” Tall One had always called him “my husband” since their marriage, so long ago now. “There was a warrior woman, long ago, who led the People, before we came south.”

  That, Heads Off knew, was many generations ago, when the tribe still ranged the northern plains. The story was a dim legend, recounted with their creation story.

  “Of course,” Tall One continued, “you know that some women go with their husbands on hunts and raids.”

  Heads Off sighed deeply. That was different than the path of vengeance set forth by young Running Eagle.

  The girl sat, watching him closely. The approval of the band chief was not absolutely necessary, but she valued it highly. As she studied his face, she was suddenly impressed with the fact that her grandfather looked old and tired. Of course, she thought, the grief is his, too, over Bobcat’s loss.

  Now Heads Off partially rose to take down from its place of honor the Spanish bit, talisman of his medicine. He held it reverently in the firelight, sparkling reflections darting from the silver ornaments like shining minnows in a clear stream. Gently he held it toward her.

  “Here, Daughter. Use it in your mission.”

  Running Eagle was astonished. It was beyond belief that Heads Off would entrust her with this most powerful of medicines, the Elk-dog medicine of the People. It was this revered object which had originally helped them to control the horse.

  “Grandfather,” she stammered, “I cannot. Suppose I am killed, and the Elk-dog medicine lost.” She must not, she realized, place her vengeance above the importance to the tribe of this most powerful of medicines. “Let it remain here. I will still draw strength from it.”

  Cautiously she extended a hand, touching the rings, the shiny bangles. She had never before touched the object. The smooth, shiny surfaces were still warm from the heat of the afternoon sun. She could feel the warmth, the strength, flowing into her fingertips.

  Yes, she could not risk the loss of this important symbol of the Elk-dog band. It must stay here.

  2
2

  Some time later a small hunting party of Head Splitters camped near a stream called Oak River by their tribe. They had killed no game and had not even searched too hard. It was a teaching mission for three of the younger hunters. In this way the young men would learn to track, to stand sentry, and to ride long distances. Some day these skills would stand them in good stead as mature warriors.

  The two leaders of the party had spread their robes, assigning the night watch to young Woodpecker. It was his first watch, but there was little danger. They were only a day’s travel from the main camp.

  The horses were hobbled in the grassy bend of the stream, and they placidly grazed. Black Fox took a last look around, advised the youngsters near the fire to get some rest, and sought his bed. His companion was already snoring.

  Woodpecker sat on a stone at the edge of the meadow. It was still warm from the sun and felt good against his skin, where the top edge of his leggings only partially covered his buttocks.

  The night was dark, but soon there would be a moon, only a little past full. Still, it was lonely here on watch. The familiar night sounds were comforting, but he found himself thinking strange, anxious thoughts. What if, by some mischance, a man on watch were killed at his post? It was said that his spirit, attempting to cross over in the darkness, would become lost and wander forever in the black space between worlds. Woodpecker shivered a little and slid down further against his boulder. He was not afraid, of course, only cautious.

  He wondered if there were any disembodied spirits wandering near this spot. Anxiously he studied the dark fringe of timber along the stream.

  The first light of the rising moon revealed the dim shapes of the horses in the meadow. They were moving nervously. Woodpecker was hesitant to sound the alarm. He waited a long time, finally assuring himself that something or someone was disturbing the animals.

  Silently he slipped along a shallow draw toward the meadow, pausing to look occasionally. The horses were bunching together and moving in a southerly direction, as if they were being cautiously herded away from the camp.

  The orange rim of the moon rose higher, and now he could see the ghostly form of a tall rider carefully driving the horses before him.

  “The horses!” Woodpecker yelled. “They are stealing the horses!”

  The sleeping forms at the fire sprang to their feet, and instantly Woodpecker was aware of the vibrating twang of a bowstring somewhere in the area. One of the sleepily stumbling figures crumpled, falling almost into the fire. Another twang, and yet another.

  Then came a rumble of hooves, and the horse herd came running almost directly at him, urged by the shouts of the tall rider. They thundered past, and the warrior paused briefly, holding a spotted horse by the rein. From somewhere in the tall grass a slim figure, apparently the hidden bowman, vaulted into the saddle. The two raced out of sight after the disappearing horse herd.

  Woodpecker ran quickly to the fire, calling out in alarm. Only a single figure rose to greet him.

  “Woodpecker? Is it you?” Black Fox called.

  “Yes! The horses are gone!”

  “I know.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “All dead.”

  “I am sorry, Fox. I failed at the watch!”

  “No, Woodpecker. You gave the alarm.”

  “But too late!”

  Black Fox shook his head. “You were against skilled warriors. The attack was well planned. Did you see them?”

  Woodpecker nodded. “A tall man on a dark horse. A bowman in the grass. The first man led a horse for the other.”

  “Yes, I saw that one.”

  He was silent a long time before he spoke again. “Woodpecker, I know these two. I have met them before.”

  Thus it happened that the legend of dread Crazy Woman was born among the Head Splitters. In the following moons she and her companion, the tall warrior, seemed to be everywhere. They struck an isolated hunting camp, a small war party, they drove away horses, usually at night. This was the most fearsome thing to a people for whom dying in the darkness was repugnant and hazardous. The two raiders struck swiftly and disappeared like ghosts in the mists of the night, leaving behind the dead and dying.

  More sentries were posted, but sentries appeared to be the favorite victims of Crazy Woman.

  The motive of the two raiders was soon known. One of the young men who were spared in an early skirmish had been told, so that her victims might know. The warrior woman fought to avenge her brother, who had been killed by Head Splitters. In symbolism her raids were always carried out on her brother’s horse, an ugly mouse-colored animal with white splashes across the rump. Her deadly companion, skilled with lance, knife, and club, rode a powerful dark stallion.

  The ghostly pair seemed to be everywhere. In one night when mist lay heavy on the prairie, they were reported in at least three areas, each a day’s journey apart from the other two. It was whispered that they were somehow not of this world.

  Black Fox was not convinced. He had seen the original charge of Crazy Woman and had seen her at close distance. There was nothing supernatural about her, he knew. This was a woman of flesh and bone and blood. She must be stopped. She was killing the finest young warriors of his tribe.

  Black Fox had one major dilemma in all this. Having seen the girl, he was convinced that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever imagined in his wildest dreams. Now he was confused. She was the focal point of all his waking thoughts, but he was unsure whether he wished to possess her or to kill her. He was certain that it must be one or the other. Perhaps both.

  There must be a way to draw her out, to make her vulnerable to defeat or capture. Black Fox knew he must devise a clever plan, for the two were formidable warriors. He had seen them in action twice, now, both times to his dismay.

  If he could entice the warrior woman and her companion out and away from their territory, he thought, then their unfamiliarity with the terrain would place them at a disadvantage. A complicated scheme began to form in his mind.

  23

  The exploits of Running Eagle were perhaps less known to her own people than to the enemy. It was known that the girl and her ever-present companion, Long Walker, were constantly going on some obscure war party. The two would return, quietly state their deeds at the warriors’ circle, and be gone again.

  There were some who listened with a degree of disbelief as they recited their honors and kills of the enemy. Of course it was difficult not to believe when the pair returned driving bands of captured horses. The personal herds of Running Eagle and Long Walker increased constantly.

  Yet even with many fine animals to choose from Running Eagle continued to ride the rawboned gelding, Owl Dung. It was understood by the People that this was a part of her vows to avenge her brother. The horse had been his, so it now carried his avenger.

  As to the rest of her vows, there was little agreement. It was said that she remained celibate, and this observation was strengthened by the attitude of Long Walker. The young man appeared devoted and loyal, but he was obviously frustrated. This also led to much speculation about the duration of Running Eagle’s vows of vengeance. She appeared no nearer the fulfillment of her purpose than she had ever been.

  This was a constant concern to her friend Long Walker. Initially he had hoped that her thirst for vengeance would weaken, that she would begin to see her purpose accomplished. He attempted to encourage this view as much as he dared, praising each success and implying that surely now Bobcat was avenged. Finally Running Eagle spoke to him sternly.

  “Walker, I will say when it is over! Until then, I ride against the Head Splitters.”

  Walker nodded helplessly. “And I ride with you?”

  “Of course!”

  She flashed him the dazzling smile which had come to make their relationship all the more painful. She nudged Owl Dung in the ribs and moved forward to drive their newly captured horses toward the camp.

  Aiee, Long Walker mused. She enjoys t
his too much. He had sometimes seen her large dark eyes flash like real-fire as she prepared an attack. The ripple of her laughter as they sorted and divided the spoils of a raid was like a knife in his heart.

  Still, the laughter was for him and for the things they shared. Long Walker only wished that they could share much more. It was difficult to be content with their companionship and their effort together as a fighting unit.

  Long Walker had to admit, of course, that their skill as warriors was a thing of great pleasure to him. Their success was a thing in which to take pride. No one, he thought, could remember a more effective fighting team, their skills so perfectly complemented to each other. Bow, lance, war club, knife, skill with Elk-dogs—all were a part of their combined approach. Running Eagle’s strategy was often so imaginative, so well fitted to the customs and habits of the enemy as well as to their own skills, that he never ceased to marvel. The girl had an uncanny ability to evaluate a situation and utilize everything to her advantage.

  Gradually his cautious arguments after each encounter weakened, and the two assumed a stable relationship. Long Walker still clung to the dream of an end to the girl’s campaign, but it became easier to postpone. He gloried in their time together, exclusively with each other. They talked of many things. They teased, laughed, rode, ate, and slept.

  Sometimes they even snuggled together for warmth against the chill of the prairie night. This was most frustrating of all for Long Walker. He longed to hold the girl as a man holds a woman, in the fulfillment of marriage. Yet he knew that he must not. Even if he were able to persuade her, he would be guilty of breaking one of the strongest customs of the People. To encourage another to break a sacred vow would be extremely bad medicine.

  So their relationship grew and prospered in this strange way. They became more and more a part of each other, even though kept apart by the vows of Running Eagle.