Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)

by James Welch

  “Perhaps you should go to the white man’s school. They teach you to sit off the ground. That way you know where your ass is.”

  Crow Top leaned closer to Owl Child, his hand near his mouth. He whispered and both men laughed.

  “This one wants himself another white woman,” said Owl Child. “He says they are better than his hand, even better than his dog!”

  Star and Red Horn teased Crow Top. The Cut Hand leaned over the side of his horse and heaved, making belching sounds, but nothing came out. He wiped his mouth and groaned.

  Owl Child slid off his horse and walked over to Fast Horse. He looked down and said, “And what do you want, old woman?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “And when you kill this Napikwan you will feel better?”

  “I have thought how I will kill him, little by little. I will cut off little pieces....”

  Owl Child looked off toward the west. Most of the old bulls had passed over the crest of the yellow hill. Only the sleeping one remained on the slope. He was lying on his side, surrounded by long-tails. Any other time Owl Child would have practiced his shooting—to put the old one out of his misery—but not now. They were too close to the ranch. He knew what Fast Horse was feeling inside. He too wished to teach this redheaded Napikwan a lesson. But Fast Horse had only been wounded. He hadn’t been humiliated as Owl Child had been that day long ago when he had been struck down with a whip and slapped before his own people. But now Owl Child was revenged. He had made Malcolm Clark pay. He had killed him in his own house. The sight of Four Bears Clark lying in his own blood, his women screaming in the other room, had filled Owl Child with great pleasure. It should have been enough but it wasn’t. There were other Napikwans as evil as Four Bears. Owl Child felt his face grow hot as he heard the words again that Clark had called him: a dog and a woman. All the Napikwans would pay for those words. And to think his own cousin, Cutting-off-head Woman, had married Four Bears and had let this bad thing happen to Owl Child. To think that many of the Pikunis had disapproved of Owl Child’s revenge. They were the women—letting the Napikwans steal their lands, kill off their blackhorns, marry their women. They thought that by humbling themselves they could appease the whites. Owl Child spat. They would pay too, he thought. They would pay good, but not at the hands of Owl Child, for he would have nothing to do with them. Only Mountain Chief and a few others knew that the white men were evil two-faces. But that was not Owl Child’s worry. No, he was on his own and liked it that way. Owl Child would make a name for himself that would make them all, Pikuni or Napikwan, tremble to hear.

  As he looked off toward the dying bull, he heard the soft drumming of hooves like muffled thunder. He reached his horse in ten steps, leaped into the saddle and sat tensely, rifle butt resting against his right thigh. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fast Horse scrambling to his feet.

  The two riders appeared over the rim of the hill. Owl Child watched them ease their horses down the soft earth slope, kicking up mud and slush. Bear Chief and Under Bull slowed their horses to a trot. Owl Child settled back in his saddle.

  “How is it?” he called.

  “The man works in his corral, shoveling manure. His woman sits on the steps of the lodge with two little ones. Easy for us.” Under Bull was breathing hard. His nose ran.

  “How about the horses?”

  “In a wire pen behind the corral. Sixteen we counted.”

  “No other Napikwans?”

  “We looked around. No others.”

  Owl Child turned to Fast Horse and grinned. “There is your Napikwan. Like an old cow in the corral.”

  “I am ready,” said Fast Horse. The tiredness had left his bones. “I will make him cry many times before Sun returns to his lodge.”

  Owl Child and the others laughed. “Then let us not keep him waiting. He gathers manure for the evening meal.”

  Fast Horse rode beside Owl Child, his big bay two hands taller than the white horse with the red thunderbirds on his shoulders. This was what the Lone Eaters did not know about, he thought, this urgency, this ease with which one could make his enemies pay. He glanced back at the riders. The Cut Hand, at the rear of the small column, was leaning over his horse again.

  Fools Crow had followed Fast Horse’s tracks that first day out. It had been easy in the deep snow. But that night as he lay asleep in a shelter under a cutbank surrounded by rosebushes, the chinook winds began to blow. By morning the snow level in the high places had lowered considerably. Fools Crow sat on his heels outside the shelter and ate the boiled meat that Red Paint had packed. The sky was light enough so that he could see it would be a clear day. The small puffy clouds were riding the wind northeast.

  By midday he was nearly to the point where the Two Medicine joins the Bear. The grass showed yellow through the thin layer of snow on the hills to either side of him. Large chunks of ice floated in the eddy of the confluence. Fools Crow found a dry rock and sat and smoked. There was no hope of following Fast Horse’s trail now. But he didn’t need to. He knew Fast Horse would ride up on the rims overlooking the valley, keeping out of the deeper snow. Mountain Chief’s camp was not far. He would reach it sometime in the afternoon of the next day. And he knew that either he would find Fast Horse there or somebody would know where he had gone.

  He had enough boiled meat to last this night and the next morning. Then he would have to start living on the pemmican or stop and kill something. He chewed on the cold belly fat that Red Paint had thrown in as a treat and suddenly, unexpectedly, felt excited. He was enjoying himself. He had not been without another person for some time. He did not feel sad or lonely because Red Paint or his father or another hunter were not with him; instead, he felt the freedom of being alone, of relying only upon himself. He remembered his first lone hunt as a youth, the giddiness with which he stalked the deer for a whole day, the thrill he felt when he held its liver in his hands, still warm and steaming in the winter air. He had never felt so free.

  The thought came into his mind without warning, the sudden understanding of what Fast Horse found so attractive in running with Owl Child. It was this freedom from responsibility, from accountability to the group, that was so alluring. As long as one thought of himself as part of the group, he would be responsible to and for that group. If one cut the ties, he had the freedom to roam, to think only of himself and not worry about the consequences of his actions. So it was for Owl Child and Fast Horse to roam. And so it was for the Pikunis to suffer.

  He stood and walked over to the joining of the two rivers. As he watched the silent seam filled with ice chunks and froth, he knew he would find Fast Horse. But could he talk him into returning to camp, into giving up this freedom? Fast Horse had changed, and Fools Crow knew his task was hopeless. His own feeling of freedom deserted him. As he looked into the ice-clogged seam of the two rivers, he felt again the weight of responsibility. He had promised Boss Ribs to bring back his son, and that’s what he would try to do. He tossed a chunk of ice into the seam and it joined the other chunks, indistinguishable, heading downriver.

  The camp of the Many Chiefs lay in a bend of the Bear River not far east of the Medicine Rock. The Medicine Rock was red and lay halfway up a bluff on the north side of the river. Many said there was life in that rock and made offerings to it. Fools Crow had placed a small brass earring at its base but did not linger. He noticed feathers and shells and a finger ring around it. Such offerings assured safe traveling.

  Fools Crow followed the valley east to the camp. It was not a large camp, some twenty-seven lodges scattered on both sides of the slow clear river. Less than three moons ago there had been forty-four lodges, but many had moved away when they heard that the seizers were looking for Mountain Chief. The river had cut deep here, and the lodges lay between tall dark bluffs over which the cold north winds passed. Big-leaf trees and stands of willow marked the curve of the river, just above the cracked black gumbo of the bed.

  Fools Crow urged his horse across a sh
allow riffle to the side where Mountain Chiefs lodge stood, surrounded by others. On a small bluff behind the lodges, children slid down the slope on their buffalo-rib sleds. The snow had long since turned to black slush and the sleds moved slowly. A pack of dogs trotted out to greet Fools Crow. Others stood barking beside the entrances to the lodges.

  Mountain Chiefs tipi was made of twenty-five skins, the largest in the village. The top and bottom were painted black and red and yellow in stripes and jagged lines. Red horses circled the middle. Fools Crow saw a handsome woman hacking meat from a bone near the entrance. He recognized her as the chiefs sits-beside-him wife. She looked up, pushing the hair from her face with the backs of her hands.

  Fools Crow slid off his horse. “I am looking for the great Mountain Chief. I would speak with him about an important matter concerning Boss Ribs, keeper of the Beaver Medicine.”

  “You are of the Lone Eaters.”

  “I am the son of Rides-at-the-door, war chief of the Lone Eaters.”

  The woman smiled. “And your mother is Double Strike Woman, formerly of the Hard Topknots. We grew up together. That makes you White Man’s Dog or Running Fisher.”

  “Fools Crow. I used to be White Man’s Dog.”

  “Then you are welcome, young man, whatever your name is.”

  Fools Crow blushed. The woman was teasing him.

  “You come to talk importantly with my husband, then?” She stood. She was slender and as tall as Fools Crow.

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “He is down at the river with two others.” She pointed in the direction where the river made a sweeping loop, north to south, before heading east again. She smiled again. “I think they are gambling.”

  Fools Crow thanked her and walked off in the direction she had pointed.

  “Say hello to your mother,” she called. “Tell her Little Young Man Woman greets her.”

  Fools Crow thanked her again. He liked this woman who joked like a man. She was well named.

  At the edge of the camp he heard giggling behind him. He turned and found that he was being followed by three little girls. One of them was holding a puppy. He raised his arms and growled at them and they ran off, their small buckskin dresses flapping around their ankles.

  The trail led through a narrow strip of willows, set down from the camp level. He met a young man dressed only in leggings and moccasins who eyed him warily, without speaking, until he was past. His naked upper body was wet.

  Three men stood in water up to their waists, talking. Suddenly one of them dipped beneath the surface and kicked his legs out of the water. He paddled a short way from the others, then stood in chest-high water. He shuddered like a horse, his white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun. He caught a piece of ice that had floated into his hair and threw it far out into the river. The other two men laughed. Then one of them caught sight of Fools Crow and nudged his companion. Fools Crow stepped forward and identified himself. The man who had swum away from the others ran his hands through his loose black hair, squeezing the water out. He waded slowly to the bank.

  “I am Mountain Chief,” he said. “What brings you to our camp, young man?”

  Fools Crow watched him step up onto the grassy bank. His legs, up to mid-calf, were covered with black gumbo. Fools Crow had often seen Mountain Chief at the summer encampment and had always thought of him as an old man. But now, looking at the naked, water-beaded body, he realized that Mountain Chief possessed the tautness of a young warrior. Only his weather-marked face gave the impression of age.

  “Boss Ribs sends me to look for his son, Fast Horse. He would have Fast Horse return to his lodge. He thinks his son is with Owl Child.”

  Mountain Chief dressed slowly, pulling on his leggings, tying the blue breechcloth around his middle. As he pulled the cotton shirt down over his head, Fools Crow could see an ugly scar under his right armpit.

  “It is true Owl Child lives among us, but he is gone more that he is here. When we returned from the Real Old Man country to our winter camp, he kept on going. He is not among us.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  Mountain Chief called to the two men who were still in the river. They looked at each other. One of them said, “Ten, twelve sleeps.”

  “Did Fast Horse come here?”

  “Three sleeps ago. He too was looking for Owl Child.” The man glanced at Mountain Chief, but the chief was looking across the river to the black buttes. “He stayed the night.”

  “Did he say where he was headed?”

  The man was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “He stayed with the family of Bear Chief. They might know.”

  Without looking at Fools Crow, Mountain Chief said, “Have you seen the seizers on your journey?”

  “No. I come directly from the camp of the Lone Eaters. No sign of them along the Bear.” Fools Crow looked up at the weathered face. In his clothes, Mountain Chief looked older again. “They came to our summer camp in the Sweet Grass Hills two moons ago.”

  Mountain Chief looked at him. “Were they looking for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did your chiefs—what did Three Bears tell them?”

  “That the Lone Eaters had not seen Mountain Chief since the summer ceremony. They knew that you had crossed the Medicine Line into the Real Old Man country. The seizer chief was very angry. He wishes to make Mountain Chief pay for the killing of Malcolm Clark.”

  Mountain Chief laughed but his eyes were hard.

  “He holds Mountain Chief responsible for the acts of Owl Child,” said Fools Crow.

  “His business is with Owl Child, not me. It was Owl Child who killed Four Bears.”

  “The Napikwans wish revenge. They would have all the Pikunis killed off, blameless or not. They go after you because they say you harbor Owl Child and are pleased with his acts. They say you would make the Napikwans cry.”

  “That is true,” admitted Mountain Chief. “If the other chiefs had hearts like mine, we would take to the war road. We would drive these white near-men out of our country. We would slaughter their animals like insects. We would burn up their square houses and cause all trace of Napikwan to disappear. Our long-ago people would once again recognize this land. It shames me that they grow restless in the Sand Hills because their children do nothing.” Mountain Chief looked up at the sky. “We have become a nothing-people.”

  Beneath the warm sun, out of the wind below the bluffs which sheltered the camp, Fools Crow felt a chill run through his scalp. He had heard this powerful chief speak his mind, and it went to his heart. It troubled him that his own father and Three Bears, and most of the Lone Eaters, counseled peace with the whites. Yet either way it seemed that the Pikunis were being driven into a den with only one entrance. What did Sun Chief ask of them? Why did he ignore the prayers of his people?

  “Tell me your name again, young man.”

  Fools Crow gave it and said farewell to Mountain Chief. He hesitated a moment, but the chief was once again looking to the black bluffs to the north. He turned and trotted through the willow strip and up the incline to the camp.

  He learned from Bear Chiefs father that Bear Chief had gone with Owl Child and several other young men. They rode south, he wasn’t sure where, but someplace on the Big River, perhaps Rocks Ridge Across. Fast Horse had followed them.

  Fools Crow rode up a dry wash to the bluffs south of the camp. He stopped and looked back. He didn’t really know why, but he was glad to be away from there.

  She was a bony woman, and at first Owl Child thought she was the redheaded man’s mother. Her face was hard and lined and her brown hair hung limp and dirty. She was naked to the waist and her whiteness almost hurt his eyes. Only her neck and large knobby hands reflected a life of sun and wind and dirt. Her breasts, small and low, were flanked on either side by a harsh definition of ribs. She looked beyond Owl Child toward the corral.

  At first she had screamed and screamed when she saw Fast Horse standing over her husband, empt
ying his rifle into the limp body. Crow Top and The Cut Hand had held her while Star slapped her face and ripped her dress down to the waist. He clubbed her below the ear with his fist and she fell to the ground, her last scream caught in her throat. They dragged her inside the small cabin, shutting the door on the two children, who held each other and sobbed.

  When she came out, she did not try to cover herself up. She did not scream: She did not seem to notice the small boy and girl who gathered folds of her skirt in their pudgy hands and held their faces skyward, their wailing a monotonous ahhhh in the late afternoon.

  Now Owl Child looked at her and felt nothing at all. Her upper lip had puffed, and there was a long scratch below her left breast. Owl Child looked behind her. Crow Top drew his finger across his throat. The Cut Hand was drinking out of a jug.

  Perhaps they should kill the woman, thought Owl Child. It would be best not to leave a witness. And she is ugly. But there was something in her passionless stare that made Owl Child feel she would be better left alive. To tell the other Napikwans what she saw. Yes, she would tell them she had seen something. And when they saw that nothing-look in her eyes they would become frightened.