Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)

by James Welch

  Sun Chief had cleared a small ridge to the southeast and was burning off the last of the ground fog when Red Paint finished washing the berry pot, bowls and horn spoons. She sat back on her heels and watched the slippery swimmer that had stationed himself in an eddy behind a yellow rock. He would drift to the edge of the current, float downstream a short way, then return with a wag of his tail. The day before she had tossed him a couple of yellow-wings and he had darted up, his body splashing silver in the sun, to devour the insects. She had been tempted for three days now to catch him and taste of his flesh. Her own people scorned those who ate the underwater swimmers, but she had a cousin who had married into the Fish Eaters band of the Siksikas, and he had become fond of the silver creatures. He said they tasted like the young prairie chicken. She wiped her wet hands on the hem of her dress and smiled. Today she would make a bone hook. She would catch him for Fools Crow. In the solitude of the Backbone they would taste the flesh of this swimmer together.

  She carried her dishes up the gentle incline to the lodge. The small meadow was filled with windflowers, bear grass and lupine. The dry odor of juniper came with a breeze. Downstream the thickets of chokecherry bushes glistened with the purple fruit. Red Paint placed her hand on her abdomen and thought she felt a slight roundness. “Sleep-bringer,” she crooned. Then she slipped inside the lodge, glanced at Fools Crow, the sacks of dried chokecherries, the bundles of dried roots and leaves, and picked up her beadwork and ducked quietly through the entrance again. She walked downstream a hundred paces to her favorite sitting spot, a grassy knoll beneath a tall fir that grew apart from the forest. She sat with her legs tucked under her and looked at the tiny moccasins. She had finished the yellow butterfly on one of them. She held the soft sole against her cheek. It was made of elkskin. Fools Crow had shot a calf and she had tanned it. After cutting out the moccasins, she had rolled the skin and tucked it away. It would yield more moccasins as their baby grew.

  She looked back at the lodge. She was glad that Fools Crow had gone back to sleep after their morning meal. He had tossed and turned all night as though tormented by bad dreams.

  Fools Crow got up when he could hear his wife’s footsteps no longer. He put on his leggings, picked up his rifle and peeked out the door. When she had settled herself under the fir tree, he hurried out and around the other side of the lodge. He had tethered the horses a good way upstream, out of sight. He trotted the few paces to the edge of the timber. Once in, he began to circle higher until he came to a patch of bushes a little above the top of the fir tree. From here he could see both upstream and downstream and the hillside across the meadow. He settled down to wait.

  He had wanted to warn Red Paint, but Raven had said not to alarm her, for she would give away the trick by her actions. As he squatted behind a red bush he looked down at the back of his wife. She had grown more beautiful in the days since their marriage. It was a beauty that had to do with the way she moved, the way she walked, even the way she sat. Her face and body had not changed, except for the slight swelling of her abdomen. Maybe that was it. Fools Crow had seen women who were with child become more serene, more womanly, more desirable. But they also became heavier, more centered on the ground, as though to move would break their tie with Mother Earth’s spirit. Red Paint was light and swift, as graceful as the prairie-runner in her stride. Her body was firm and yielding, her hips wide and strong. When he watched her bathe in the stream, Fools Crow knew he was married to a woman who turned other men’s heads. Now he felt ashamed that this beauty would spring the trap.

  Just before midday Fools Crow saw the Napikwan approach from upstream. He walked unhurriedly, without fear, into camp. His long stride reminded Fools Crow of the big-nose who lived in the swamps. The Napikwan walked straight to the lodge and pushed the flap back with his gun barrel. He knelt and looked inside. Then he stood and looked first upstream, then across, then downstream. He was the biggest man Fools Crow had ever seen. In his fringed jacket and leggings, with his wolf headdress, his bushy beard and hair, he looked like a molting blackhorn bull, half in and half out of his winter coat. His gray eyes stopped, and Fools Crow knew he had spotted Red Paint. The Napikwan stood still for a moment; then he walked back to the edge of the timber.

  From his vantage point of seventy paces up the hill from Red Paint, Fools Crow could not see the man’s upper body, but by laying his chin on the ground he could see the long striding legs moving silently toward him. Then the legs stopped and spread slightly. The gun butt rested on the ground between them. Fools Crow grew frightened for Red Paint. Suppose Raven was wrong. Suppose the Napikwan’s heart was not filled with lust, but instead with hatred. He had killed many animals for no reason; suppose he now wished to kill a human. Fools Crow glanced at Red Paint. She sat quietly, unaware, her slim back bent over her beadwork. Then he looked back toward the legs. The rifle butt had disappeared. The legs had shifted, so that the left one was now pointed toward Red Paint. The Napikwan was perhaps fifty paces below and to the right of Fools Crow. Thick branches still hid the man’s upper body, but in the hot dry air, the warrior could hear the Napikwan’s breathing. There was a hard edge to it as though the man had the winter sickness.

  Fools Crow knew the trick had gone wrong. The Napikwan was truly more animal than human. He had sensed the trap, and now he was silently taunting Fools Crow to come out of hiding. Of course, he had looked into the lodge and seen the warrior’s possessions. Raven had told him in his dream that Red Paint would be alone. Now he was using Red Paint, the threat of harm, to make Fools Crow show himself. Oh, thought the warrior, oh, not only is the Napikwan stronger, but he is smarter than Fools Crow as well. He began to tremble. He wanted to shout to Red Paint to run, but the man was in easy range to drop her with one shot, should she move. Fools Crow lifted his rifle. His only chance was to shoot the man’s legs out from under him. But as he sighted down the barrel, the legs moved back behind the trunk of a pine. Fools Crow lifted his head, then sat up slowly. He wiped his damp palms on his leggings. The big Napikwan is more than animal, he thought. He is a spirit who sees without seeing. Again Fools Crow wiped his palms on his leggings, but this time they weren’t damp. Nor were his hands trembling.

  He stood, crouching, glancing about. There was a tree on the edge of the brushy clearing. If he could reach that he would have a better angle to get off a killing shot. The sun was hot on his bare back and sweat trickled down his ribs. Then he was running, dodging the red bushes, trying to see both the Napikwan and the ground before him. Suddenly he heard a boom! and fell to the ground. He lifted his head, spitting dirt, and saw a fresh chip in the tree that had been his goal. He panicked. His only thought was to get to Red Paint before the Napikwan tired of the game and decided to kill her. He was running down the slope, shouting to her to get away, but she didn’t move. She watched him come near with a questioning look in her eyes. Her mouth was open as though she were about to speak. The next shot lifted Fools Crow off his feet and spun him around. He came down hard on his back and slid until he was stopped by a small pine. He pulled himself up and leaned back against the tree. His breathing was raspy. Then at the same time, he heard Red Paint scream and the Napikwan shout something in a slow singing voice. He continued to sing as though he were boasting, mocking the Pikuni warrior. Fools Crow looked at his shoulder. A piece of flesh had been blasted away just below the shoulder bone. It was matted with dirt and grass. His rifle lay on the slope two body lengths away. He heard the Napikwan laugh and then another boom! The small tree snapped in two above his head. Fools Crow leaned back and breathed deeply and saw a red wall come up behind his eyes. He felt sick and weak. He closed his eyes and called out to Sun Chief, to Wolverine, his power, to give him strength, to let him die with honor. Slowly, almost silently, a sound entered his ears. As the sound increased in volume, the red wall behind his eyes receded. Now he saw the slope clearly, the red bushes, the slender yellow grasses—and his gun. The sound was in his head and in the small meadow surrounded by the
great mountains of the Backbone. The sound flowed through his body and he felt the strength of its music in his limbs, in his hands, in his guts, in his chest. He sprang to a crouch, then made a dive for his weapon. A boom! kicked up a patch of duff inches from his head. But the music had reached his heart. The weapon was in his hands, against his cheek, and he watched the greased shooter leave his rifle and he watched it travel through the air, between the trees, and he saw it enter the Napikwan’s forehead above the startled eyes, below the wolfskin headdress, and he squatted and watched the head jerk back, then the body, until it landed with a quivering shudder in the bear grass, the lupine, the windflowers. Then the sound was no more. Fools Crow’s death song had ended.

  15

  THREE BEARS LIT the ceremonial pipe, puffed, then passed it to his left. Each man smoked the pipe until it reached the entrance. Then it was handed back, unsmoked, to Three Bears, who gave it to the man on his right. Again each man smoked until it reached the entrance. Three Bears retrieved the pipe, refilled it, and the ceremony was repeated.

  The fire had warmed the council lodge, and most of the men had let their blankets fall behind them. The odor of sweet grass hung in the smoky air. Outside, a sharp north wind rattled the ear poles and luffed against the lodge skins.

  “And now we will listen to Fools Crow,” said Three Bears.

  Fools Crow took a deep breath and told them about his and Red Paint’s journey to the mountains, their days of hunting and picking berries, his killing of the white bighead and its theft by the real-bear, Raven’s visit and fear, Fools Crow’s fear, the trick and the killing of the Napikwan who leaves his kills. As he spoke he realized the unlikelihood of his story but he persisted, for it was important that no detail, no event, be left out. Once he glanced at his father and saw a look of consternation on the long face. Three Bears looked into the fire.

  When he was finished, Fools Crow removed his shirt and looked at each man. There was a murmuring of voices as the men stared at the wound. Although it had almost healed, there were rounded ridges of flesh around the concavity. Fools Crow had instructed Red Paint in the preparation of roots and leaves. The paste had taken away the pain, and in just eight sleeps the scar tissue was firm.

  Fools Crow could see the skepticism on the faces. He heard one man say, “... shot himself.” He looked across the fire to Mik-api, but the many-faces man was mixing something on the earth before him.

  Three Bears cleared his throat and the lodge became silent. “Our young friend has had quite an adventure,” he began. Several of the men laughed, but the laughter died quickly under the stony eyes of the old chief. “If this is the truth, then we must counsel with seriousness. To kill a Napikwan is worth little laughter.” With that, he passed the ceremonial pipe down to Mik-api. The medicine man held the pipe and dipped a brush into the mixture in the small bowl at his feet. The men watched him paint the stem a dull red. From somewhere in the camp came the steady thump of a drum, as in an owl dance. One of the men nearest the door leaned forward to throw another stick on the fire.

  Mik-api passed the pipe back to Three Bears. Shadows flickered on the wall behind him as he lit it. The pipe was handed down to Fools Crow. All the warriors watched as the young man held the pipe, for to smoke this red-painted pipe with a deceiving heart surely meant that one’s days were numbered. Fools Crow put the pipe to his lips and sucked in the smoke. He puffed the pipe three times, each time blowing the smoke up into the warm air over the fire.

  Now the men began to talk excitedly. One of them pointed to Fools Crow’s wound, and those around him said, “Ahhh!”

  Three Bears took the pipe and knocked it against a stone in the fire ring. The red ashes fell to the ground.

  “Fools Crow knows the power of this pipe and he smokes it with a true heart. Now we must deliberate.”

  And so the men argued about the killing of the Napikwan. To most of them it was a good and just act, for the white man had been killing off all the animals, thus depriving the Pikunis of their food and skins. Some felt that the killing of a Napikwan was no worse than the killing of a wolf with the white-mouth. Young Bird Chief, who was popular with the militant members of the band, suggested that now was the time to kill them all off, one by one or all at once. Several around him shouted their agreement.

  Rides-at-the-door got to his feet and they fell silent. His voice was low and flat, as though his mind were occupied with something other than what he said. “Let us put an end to this foolish talk. Many of you are too young to remember our previous conflicts with the Napikwans.

  “My own father, Fools Crow’s grandfather, was killed many winters ago in a pointless raid on one of the forts on the Big River east of here. Many of you have also lost relatives in the long-ago. At that time the Pikunis did not know the power of the Napikwans. They thought to drive out these strange creatures, so they loosed their arrows and lances, rode into battle with axes and knives and were killed mercilessly by these new sticks-that-speak-from-afar. Many women and children were left to cry. It became apparent to our long-ago chiefs that they must make peace with the Napikwans, or the Pikunis would disappear from their mother’s breast. It has been almost thirteen winters since the big treaty with the bosses from the east. I remember the council on the banks of the Big River. At that time the Pikunis gave the Napikwans some land in return for promises that we would be left alone to hunt on our ranges. We were satisfied, for our ranges still extended beyond where sky touches earth. We in turn promised that we would leave the white ones alone. Four winters ago, we signed a new paper with the Napikwans, giving them our land that lies south of the Milk River. Again, we promised to let them alone. We thought that would put an end to their greed. Last year they brought us a new paper and our chiefs marked it. We were to get commodities to make up for our reduced ranges and our promise to live in peace with them. Our chiefs were to receive some of the white man’s money. These things never came to pass. And so we have every reason to hate the Napikwans.”

  The warriors began to speak at once, their voices filled with anger. Young Bird Chief stood and the talk died away. “You say well, Rides-at-the-door. We know you speak the truth and we respect you as a coming-together man. But sometimes we think you and the other leaders do not see with the sharpness of your hearts. Do you not notice the whitehorns grazing on Pikuni soil to the south and east of us? Soon the Napikwans will take that land from us. Did you not see how the seizers, led by Joe Kipp and the Captain Snelling, rode undisturbed right into our camp on our own land? Did they ask permission, send kind requests and gifts? No, they demanded we tell them the whereabouts of Mountain Chiefs people so they could kill them off. How long before they turn on the Lone Eaters and decide that we too are insects to be stepped on? Are we to go quietly to the Sand Hills, to tell our long-ago people that we welcomed death like cowards? That is not the way of the Pikunis. If we must go to the Shadowland, we will go with our heads high, our spirits content that we have fought the Napikwans to death.”

  The men of the council gestured and murmured their agreement. Even Fools Crow found himself joining in assent, thinking that perhaps the leaders did not see the peril before them. And he remembered standing beside the black horse during Mountain Chiefs speech, looking up into Fast Horse’s face. That grin Fools Crow had seen was not so much a grin of cruelty but of contempt. Contempt for the leaders and the people for trying to appease the Napikwans, for trying to live in peace with them even as they treated the Pikunis like insects to be stepped on, just as Young Bird Chief had said. As he looked around at the faces, he saw many of the older men, including his father and Three Bears, staring down at the fire. Fools Crow pulled his robe over his back and listened to the howling wind. He didn’t like what he had seen.

  “There are many who would join us. Mountain Chief would surely lead us. We could count on the Hard Topknots, the Small Brittle Fats, the Small Robes, the Never Laughs among our number. Many Kainahs and Siksikas would join us. Others would see our numbers and j
oin in.” Young Bird Chief was now addressing all the warriors in the lodge. “With such a war party, we could drive the Napikwans from our lands. Once again the Pikunis, Kainahs and Siksikas would be feared by those tempted to live among us. As Old Man created this land and created us, so must we defend it until we are no more. It is right. Young Bird Chief has spoken to you.”

  Rides-at-the-door had listened to Young Bird Chief with an open mind. In many ways the young brave was right. Napikwan had his hands around the Pikuni throat and was tightening his grip. Soon there would be nothing left of the people but their strangled bodies. Would they not be justified in joining the spirit of Owl Child and his gang in their growing resistance to the whites? Perhaps if the Pikuni numbers were strong, they could drive the Napikwans from their land—or at least obtain an honorable treaty. Wouldn’t that be better than sitting like old blackhorn bulls, waiting for the end? Even as he thought this, Rides-at-the-door knew how it would be. The Napikwans would use the excuse of war to exterminate the Pikunis. He felt obliged to speak again.

  “Haiya! Listen to me, warriors. Much of what Young Bird Chief says is as true as the stem of the medicine pipe. Our hearts are full of anger, and I have no doubt we could inflict a great blow on these Napikwans. It would not be difficult to drive these individuals from our lands. Perhaps we could burn down the trading forts and the white settlements. Many scalps would hang from our lodgepoles. It would make our people feel good to do these things. It would make me feel good, for no one hates the presence of the Napikwans more than I. In my youth I was a member of Bird Rattler’s party that killed the steamboat men on the Big River. I fought the seizers at Rocks Ridge Across and stole their big-ears. Boss Ribs and White Calf”—he gestured in the direction of the two men—“were with that party. But that was long ago. There weren’t many of the Napikwans in those days.