Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)

by James Welch

  Fast Horse caught the loose saddle horses, then got down off his own animal and picked up the weapons. One of the rifles was a many-shots gun. He wiped the mud from the barrel, then fired it in the air. It was a good find. He looked at the two men lying on the ground and saw that one of them was wearing a cartridge belt over his canvas coat. As he bent down to loosen it he looked into the face. The eyes were wide open and blue. The whites were red with bursted blood. As he pulled the belt from beneath the man’s body, he heard a long rattle from deep within the man’s chest. He drew back and looked again at the eyes. He thought he saw a flicker and knelt close to the face. He looked deep in the sunlit blue of the eyes, searching for life, and was surprised how far into the eyes he could see. But the man lay still and there was no life in him. Fast Horse had thought he wanted to take the man’s hair, but those blue sightless eyes spooked him.

  As he rode down the Dry Fork he grew uncomfortable. The Pikuni camps were not far away. Mountain Chiefs camp was only a day’s ride to the northeast. The Hard Topknots were less than that. If the seizers came upon these white men and their wagons, they would attack the nearest Pikunis. We have done a bad thing this time, thought Fast Horse. We have struck too close to the camps. He looked around, searching the horizons, but he saw nothing.

  One of the wagons lay on its side and its cargo lay scattered in the muddy grass of the draw. The big whiskey barrels had burst on impact and the smell of whiskey was in the air. Under Bull and Red Horn were picking through the debris. Not far away the team was grazing. Farther down the trail, several hundred paces away, the other wagon stood upright, still attached to the oxen. Black Weasel and Crow Top were slitting away the canvas with their scalping knives. Owl Child sat on his horse, examining a bullwhip. Suddenly he lashed out with it, wrapping the tip around a wheel rim. Crow Top looked up, startled, and Owl Child laughed.

  “I will use this on your hide, black Pikuni, next time you shoot one of these shit-beasts,” he said, flicking the whip in the direction of the downed bull.

  “He had a wild eye, that one,” said Crow Top. He slit the last of the canvas free. “He looked at me and I felt my testicles climb up inside of me.”

  “Next time I’ll shake your testicles off with this.”

  Crow Top and Black Weasel pulled back the canvas and whooped with pleasure. The six barrels were still lashed securely and the tins of doctored whiskey stood neatly in rows. Between the tins and the barrels there were sacks of coffee and flour and packages of trade-cloth and tobacco. There was also one large heavy crate. Crow Top popped the cap off one of the whiskey tins and drank. Black Weasel made a swipe at the tin and the whiskey erupted over Crow Top’s face. As he gasped and coughed, Owl Child swung up into the wagon, laughing, but his eyes were on the crate. He began to pry up with his knife on the top boards, the smooth square nails squeaking in protest. When he had removed two of the boards, he slit the canvas underneath and dug around with his hand. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

  “Sonofabitch.” Crow Top laughed.

  Owl Child drew out a cast-iron frying pan, then another, then a kettle. He threw the cooking items into the grass below the wagon. Black Weasel worked on the top of one of the kegs with his axe. “This is the real Napikwan whiskey,” he said. “No water, no bugs to make it bad.”

  Fast Horse had pulled up a few paces from the wagon and watched the three men dig through the goods. The steady chopping of the ax sounded almost peaceful. He glanced up the hill to the east and young Bear Chief waved to him. He was supposed to be on watch, but he was more interested in what the warriors were finding. Fast Horse pointed to his own eyes with forked fingers and Bear Chief held up his hand and turned away.

  Owl Child had looked up and noticed this. “So you have come to claim your white woman cooking pots. What is that on your finger?”

  “It is a finger ring—made from the red see-through stone. I claimed it from the one who was pissing.”

  Owl Child frowned. He had found a leather packet with Napikwan money and some pictures. “I’ll give you this and you give me that finger ring. There is a white woman here that will make you squirt.”

  “You keep it. Fast Horse does not need to squirt with a picture of the white woman.”

  “Someday I will cut off that finger and claim the red stone.”

  Black Weasel yelled in triumph and dipped his cupped hand into the barrel. He drew it out slowly and held it before Crow Top. “Now I drink the clean water, not that whitehorn piss you find.”

  The young men dipped a kettle of the whiskey and found a dry place on the side of the draw. Crow Top had also found a sack of dried apples. The men passed the kettle and ate the apples.

  “What will we do with the big whitehorns?” Fast Horse was looking down at the teams. The Cut Hand was down with the bulls, rifle in his arms, circling them. “I think that bad head wishes to shoot them all.”

  Owl Child yelled at The Cut Hand. Then he turned to Fast Horse. “They are no good. They are too slow to drive. Only the white man can make them go where he wants.”

  “What about the other goods—the whiskey?”

  Owl Child chewed on a dried apple. He looked at the big barrels. “It makes me sad to think of leaving it.”

  “We could take some of the shiny-skins,” said Crow Top.

  “You would drink the Napikwans’ piss too,” said Black Weasel.

  “You who talk look like an old woman with that headdress.”

  The others laughed. Black Weasel had cut a strip of flowered cloth from one of the bolts he found and had wrapped it around his head.

  “Dump out one of the shiny-skins and fill it up with the good whiskey,” said Owl Child.

  “Ah,” said Crow Top in admiration. “We will fill many with the good whiskey. Come, old woman.”

  Owl Child and Fast Horse watched the two men at their labors. Under Bull and Red Horn were riding down the draw from the first wagon. Red Horn wore a long gray coat. The sun had traveled far since the young men had made their ambush. It lay just above the peaks of the Backbone.

  “This is not a good thing,” said Fast Horse. “This time we strike too close to our people’s camps.” He expected Owl Child to flare up, to mock him.

  But Owl Child said, “I think as you do. We have made it bad on Mountain Chief. The seizers will say he did this.”

  Fast Horse was surprised. “We must burn these wagons and all the goods and the Napikwans with them,” he said. “We must do this now while there is light but not enough to allow the smoke to be seen. Then we must drive the big whitehorns far away, down toward Many Houses. They will join up with other whitehorns.”

  “Can we burn the whitehorn that Crow Top shot?”

  “Perhaps we can drag him into the bushes. Then we must get away—we can cut across to Bad Horse Butte. There is a war lodge there and no Napikwans.”

  “We could cross the Medicine Line now.” But Owl Child’s voice was tentative. Fast Horse had not seen this before. He glanced over at the sharp dark face. In the fading light, the slash across Owl Child’s cheek looked pale. He was only twenty-five or thirty winters, by Fast Horse’s reckoning, but he looked tired. His mouth drooped and his eyes had lost that intense darkness. Perhaps he is tired from all the running, thought Fast Horse. They had not spent two nights in a row in one place. They were always driving animals or just running. Then Fast Horse had another thought, a thought which filled him with sudden apprehension : Perhaps Owl Child was losing his nerve. He had been edgy lately, sulking at times, snappish at others. His decisions seemed more impulsive, less confident. And now, striking so close to the Pikuni camps—this was a bad thing.

  “It has never been my thought to bring trouble to the Pikunis. I scorn them for what they allow the Napikwans to get away with, but I do not wish them harm.” There was a flatness in the voice, as though Owl Child was repeating something he had said to himself many times. “They are foolish people and they did me wrong once. I had a right to kill Bear Head, for he
tried to cheat me out of a kill that day we made the Cutthroats cry—” He glanced at Fast Horse’s face; he knew that most Pikunis thought it had been the other way around; but there was no sign of belief or disbelief on the face. “Now they are angry with me because I try to rid this land of the Napikwans. They hate the Napikwans as much as I do, but when I fight they say I do wrong. They would like to kill off these insects but when they get around them, the Pikunis roll over like weak dogs. Now they blame me for their weakness. They say I bring harm closer to them. Perhaps I bring them an opportunity to stand up and fight.” Owl Child watched The Cut Hand circle the wagon below them. He was drinking heavily from a shiny-skin. Owl Child stood and brushed the seat of his baggy wool pants. “They are foolish, but I too am a Pikuni. Now we will burn up these wagons and drive the animals away.”

  As Fast Horse watched him trot down the hill, he couldn’t help the feeling that Owl Child’s days were counted. Whether it was nerves or fatigue, something was drawing him closer to the end. About himself, Fast Horse did not know.

  26

  THE WINTER CAMP of the Lone Eaters lay quiet in the valley of the Two Medicine River. The horses grazed some distance to the west and the day-riders were snuggled down in their robes, half asleep on their ponies. The only sound was the steady murmur of the river itself. The only movement was the wispy smoke coming from the lodges. There were no people outside the entrances, and the camp dogs were curled nose to tail, dozing beneath the high sun. The hunting had not been good for many sleeps, and there were few hides staked out to dry.

  The two riders approached the camp from the east. They were bundled up in buffalo robes, and ice clung to their horses’ fetlocks and tails. As the men rode along the river, they slumped listlessly in their saddles, unmindful of the steam that rose from the dark waters. It was the barking of the dogs that lifted the riders’ heads, and then they saw the lodges and the stark gray big-leaf trees behind them. The man in the lead stopped and watched the dogs charging across the snowy field. The sun was hazy and gave off no warmth. The horses lifted their heads and watched the dogs come but there was no tension in their bodies. They too were tired. When the dogs reached them, a big red one with a blaze of white across his muzzle began to lunge at the lead rider, snapping at the foot that rested in the stirrup by the horse’s belly. Suddenly the man threw open his robe and brought a rawhide quirt down across the dog’s nose, sending him yelping and skittering across the wind-packed snow. The other dogs drew off and the riders urged their horses forward. By the time they reached the lodges, several men stood by the entrances with their rifles crooked in their arms. The riders stopped in the middle of camp near Three Bears’ tipi.

  “Haiya! My relative, Three Bears! It is Pretty-on-top who seeks you.”

  The men from the other lodges began to approach, their eyes all on the second rider. Although he had his buffalo robe pulled tightly around his lower face and a wolf fur cap pulled down, they had noticed the mustache and the black riding boots.

  Three Bears emerged from the tipi and his breath was frosty as he spoke. “Ok-yi! My relative, it is good to see you. You are welcome among the Lone Eaters. But who is this Napikwan that comes with Pretty-on-top?”

  “He is called Sturgis. He comes from Many Houses fort. He is a heavy-singer-for-the-sick among his people.”

  Three Bears looked up at the Napikwan. The brown eyes were wide open, without fear. “And does he come to heal the Lone Eaters?”

  Pretty-on-top dismounted and motioned the healer to do the same. “It is a great sadness that brings him to us. The camps on the lower Bear River, those near Ever-shadow Bluff, are afflicted with the white scabs. The Black Patched Moccasins and the Small Brittle Fats are laid low. Many are down in the Many Chiefs band.” Pretty-on-top nodded to Rides-at-the-door and Fools Crow. “Many are dead, and every day more become so.”

  A group of men began to talk among themselves, their voices sharp and frightened in the crisp air. Several women had joined the men and now began to cry. Many in the camp had lived through the last white-scabs outbreak. They knew that once this evil spirit entered the body there was little the medicine men could do to drive it out.

  “We have feared this,” said Three Bears. “We heard it was on the lower Bear near the Big River. We didn’t know it was traveling so fast.”

  The Napikwan lowered his robe and spoke. “It is not here, then—among your band?”

  Three Bears looked at Rides-at-the-door, who turned to Fools Crow. “Ask around. Take two of the young men with you.”

  “Come into my lodge,” said Three Bears. “We will eat and smoke and then you will tell about it.” He turned to the camp crier. “Get Boss Ribs and Mik-api.”

  After the men had eaten, Rides-at-the-door said, “How is it that you speak the Pikuni language?”

  The Napikwan healer sat against a willow backrest. There was darkness beneath his eyes. “For seven winters I was married to the daughter of Takes Gun and Otter Woman of the Black Patched Moccasins. I was healer to the seizers at their fort on the Pile-of-rocks River. Takes Gun and his family came down to farm and there I met his daughter, Blue Grass Woman. Later, I took her with me to Many Houses and there we lived as man and wife. It was my wife who taught me the Pikuni tongue.”

  “What are you doing among the Pikunis now? Why aren’t you down at Many Houses?”

  “This past season of the falling leaves, my wife grew lonesome for her people so we decided to visit before they left on their winter hunt.” The Napikwan was addressing not just Rides-at-the-door but all the men in the lodge. His voice was soft, and sometimes the men had to lean forward and cup their ears. “The hunting was good and there was much feasting. Every night we ate in a different lodge. Then one day my wife scolded me because I had not brought any meat into camp. You may be a heavy-singer-for-the-sick among the Napikwans, she said, but here you must hunt or you will shame my family. Well, I took that woman at her word, for in truth I had come to feel lazy. The next morning I went out with Takes Gun and two others. We rode east until we came at last to the big bend of the Big River where it flows south. There we saw many blackhorns in the bottom of a coulee. They had not caught wind of us. Takes Gun whispered to us to get ready to run them up the hill on the other side.” Sturgis smiled faintly.

  “Now, although I have hunted all these years, I had never run the blackhorns and I was plenty nervous. Takes Gun had told me to spot a choice animal and take after it, to get one sure kill—then I could go after the others. We sped off, hard and fast, down the hill, whooping and hollering, and just as fast the blackhorns started running. Lucky for us, they didn’t follow the coulee but started running up the hill on the other side, just as Takes Gun had wished. We overtook them quickly and I killed my first animal, a big dry cow, and two others with my many-shots gun before they gained the top of the hill and were gone. I was so excited it was all I could do to keep from going after them, but I knew they could outrun my horse on the downslope. And I had killed enough meat to satisfy myself and, I hoped, Blue Grass Woman.” Sturgis stopped to light his pipe.

  Fools Crow entered the lodge. He could tell by the way the men sat forward that a story was being told. He sat down quietly by the entrance.

  “If I seem to go on about that hunt, you must forgive me, for that was the last happy day in my life.” He cleared his throat, and the men looked at each other. “After we skinned the animals and packed our meat sacks full of the best parts, we started for camp. It took us the rest of the day, for our horses were tired and loaded with meat and hides. We arrived in camp at nightfall and went straight to Takes Gun’s tipi. The only one to greet us was his youngest son. He helped us to unload the skins and meat, and when we asked him why he was so quiet, he said there was sickness within the lodge. We entered, and there on a couch of robes lay my poor wife. I knelt and laid my hand to her forehead, and there was fever there although her teeth were chattering and she said she was cold. I assured her that she would be all right, for I beli
eved that something she had eaten didn’t agree with her. I thought she had become too used to the Napikwan food and was suffering from the change in diet, for we had feasted much on the Pikuni grub. I had the young boy fetch my medicine bag, and I gave her a liquid to settle her stomach. This made her feel a little better and so I joked with her, telling her that now I bring meat she can’t eat it. But she was restless that night, so I stayed up and watched her. It wasn’t until morning light that I saw the small red sores on her forehead and under her hair. That day she became feverish and delirious....”

  A catch in Sturgis’ throat made the others look away. Rides-at-the-door glanced over at Fools Crow, and the young man made a negative sign. There was no illness in the camp.