The Sublime Seven

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  He stood slowly, as Shoe had done, and sighted. He placed the animal’s face between the notched metal, then pulled the trigger.

  ***

  “It was your first time. There is no shame in failure. Shame is to be found in not trying.”

  “I’m just disappointed in myself. I should learn how to hunt like you do. It’s quieter. Also, there’s something elegant and graceful about the way the arrows fly.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Butchering is hard work. Reckon we’ll get finished before dark?”

  Both men were covered in blood from the shoulders down. The sun hovered half a hands-breadth above the horizon. Shoe glanced up at the sky, pausing the bloody knife mid-motion. The grisly carcass and the determined expression on Shoe’s blood-spattered face created a striking contrast to the golden beauty of the late afternoon. If Jacob had possessed a talent for painting, he thought he would like to capture that image.

  “Yes, if you stop asking questions and keep working,” Shoe replied, returning to his labor.

  In another hour, the two bison were ready for transport. The detail work would be done later. They tethered both geldings to the meat-laden wagon. Shoe rode Waynoka alongside with a travois dragging behind, also laden, but he didn’t seem inclined to conversation. He was chattier than most of his kind, but he wasn’t as chatty as Jacob himself. Not by a mile. It wasn’t that Jacob loved talking, but rather that he loved listening. He had discovered years ago that listening was the best way to learn new and fascinating things. So it was a hardship to let all his questions go unasked on the way home. Something new he had learned recently in addition to building a sod house: how to sense when people needed quiet time.

  After leaving Shoe at his tepee, Jacob went home. He unhitched the horses and put them in the corral, the first thing he had built when arriving at his homestead in the Dakota Territory. Unlike Waynoka, the geldings would wander off in a heartbeat if they thought there was better grass somewhere else.

  He stifled a yawn and stoked up the campfire, tossing in a few willow branches they had found near the stream. Then he waited for his friend to appear and tell him what to do with their bounty. Soon, storing it outdoors wouldn’t be a problem because the temperature would remain below freezing for a long time. But now, in September, it wasn’t cold enough to dig a hole and bury it in the chilly soil. Amongst his supplies were two small barrels of salt. It would preserve the meat just fine, but a man could get awful tired of salted meat. He knew a little about native peoples’ food preservation and was eager to see how Shoe would do it. Would he smoke it? Would he slice it thin and hang it on racks to dry? Would he grind it up with berries, fat, and herbs to make pemmican?

  The answer was: all of the above. They did so between return trips to the grazing site to gather dung. But first, on the evening of the hunt, they enjoyed a delicious dinner of fried liver and tenderloin.

  ***

  The bison had been a godsend, and processing all the inedible parts served to keep them busy during the winter months – a double blessing. He spent long evenings by the fire in his soddy or in Shoe’s tepee, cleaning, drying, and stretching the hides. The horns were converted into soup spoons and ladles. The extra thick hide on top of the animal’s head became a bowl. The heart was turned into a pouch. Nothing went to waste, a concept that resonated deeply with Jacob. And since lessons in English grammar and Cheyenne vocabulary were conducted simultaneously, their evening hours during that long winter were fully utilized.

  “Who would have known that housed within that rough exterior lay the soul of a poet?” Shoe said one night while they worked.

  Jacob had been thinking about getting back to his soddy, adding more grain to the horses’ feed bags in the lean-to, and hitting the sack.

  “You think I’m a poet?”

  “I said you have the soul of a poet. And now that you have an improved understanding of how to string words together properly, perhaps you should write down these things that spill out of your mouth. Sometimes they are quite beautiful.”

  “Better than adequate?”

  “Indeed. And you know who likes poetry?”

  “Sissy men?” Jacob didn’t want to admit he had been flattered by Shoe’s words.

  “Women.”

  “You may be on to something. If I sit outside my soddy, spouting original poems all day, maybe they will flock to my doorstep.”

  “Maybe. Not until spring, though.”

  “Right. Ladies don’t like the cold.”

  “Native females do.”

  “Do you have one hidden under your blanket?”

  “Not here, but maybe somewhere else.”

  “What are you suggesting, Shoe?”

  “Nothing. I am just making conversation.”

  “Uh-huh. That reminds me, will I be losing my favorite neighbor soon? If I’ve been counting my days correctly, tomorrow is the first of March.”

  “Yes. My people will soon return, and I will go to them.”

  “Dang. I’ll miss you. You’ve been a good friend.”

  “I will come back to visit. Remember, my tribe camps just a few miles from here.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better. I’ll have to worry about keeping my scalp intact again.”

  “Perhaps I can put in a good word for you.”

  “I’d be much obliged.”

  “Why are you not married, Jacob Payne? You are a competent, decent man, and not too hideous to look upon. I thought you white folks have a societal imperative to find a mate and produce blue-eyed offspring.”

  He laughed. “It’s true. There’s a lot of pressure to get hitched. Females who don’t are pitied, and men who don’t are eyed with suspicion. To be honest, I just never found the right lady.”

  “So of course you came to this largely unpopulated land where white women are in even shorter supply than elsewhere. What requirements would you have for a wife?”

  “Let’s see. First, I’d have to say a sense of humor. That’s very important. She’d need to be smart and kind and...capable. I don’t mean at women’s work, like cooking and cleaning house. I mean willing to tackle just about anything with a steady hand. She’d need to be patient to put up with all my questions.”

  “True. That may be more important than anything. So many questions...” Shoe smirked. “What about beauty?”

  Jacob shrugged. “I think beauty comes more from within than without. Who’s to say what’s beautiful, anyway? I think it’s subjective.”

  “That is a fine word.”

  “I learned it from you. What about you, Shoe? Why aren’t you married to some Cheyenne princess with strong teeth and child-bearing hips?”

  His friend chuckled. “I suppose my story is the same. I have not found the right woman yet. Or perhaps the right one is not one I can have.”

  “Some other brave’s woman caught your eye?”

  Shoe shook his head and refused to answer.

  It was time to change the subject. “By the way, I never did ask you how you got that ridiculously long name.”

  “I told you when we first met that Shoemowetochawcawe is Cheyenne for high-backed wolf.”

  “You did. But why? There are no wolves here. And why high-backed?”

  “As with dogs, when wolves are tense or unsettled, their hackles rise, giving them the appearance of having a high back.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “But you are wrong about them not being here.”

  “Then why haven’t I seen any?”

  “Because you do not roam about at night. Wolves are nocturnal, although they do occasionally hunt during the day. And while they prefer timberland, they will follow their prey even onto the prairie.”

  With preternatural timing, the wind carried a howl into the tepee, passing smoke on its journey down through the vent. Two pairs of human eyes widened in surprise.

  “I better get going. Need to check on the horses.” Jacob gathered his rifle and other things.

>   “Be careful. That wolf is not far.”

  “Are you worried about Waynoka?”

  Shoe shook his head. “She will tell me if she smells a predator.”

  Jacob nodded, then opened the leather flap. A gust of frigid air washed over him. Spring was around the corner, but it hadn’t arrived quite yet.

  The night was cloudless. A luminous gibbous moon hung heavy in the starlit sky, casting enough light to see his way home without stumbling. A well-trod path had developed on the snowy ground between the two homes. He was only twenty paces from his front door when he heard a commotion in the lean-to. The horses whinnied and stamped their hooves in alarm, letting their human know a killer was in their midst.

  He dropped the pouch he had been working on that evening, and hoisted the Winchester’s stock up to his shoulder. He sprinted the remaining distance to the corral.

  As he rounded the corner, he saw a shadowy blur to the right of his vision. It moved so fast that he didn’t have time to swivel the rifle barrel toward the wolf. Instead, the animal knocked him to the ground, the impact forcing the Winchester out of his hands. As he reached for the knife wedged into a sheath on his belt, the creature lunged again. He felt the crushing force of the jaws on his forearm and the fangs sinking into his flesh. He had seen a few wolves back home, but never one this massive. It must weigh at least one-twenty, the size of a very large dog. But this was no domesticated pet. It was an apex predator used to getting what it wanted and prepared to kill a full-grown man to get it.

  If it had been a solitary wolf, he might have prevailed in the attack. But this pack contained five, and their movements were orchestrated. Later he would learn there was no deadlier, more effective hunting unit on the frontier than a wolf pack half-starved from winter.

  He blacked out after one began gnawing on his leg. The last sound he heard were the screams of his geldings.

  Or perhaps those screams escaped from his own throat.

  ***

  “Meseestse,” a voice said. Eat.

  When Jacob tried to open his eyes, he realized they were glued shut by a crusty build-up between his top and bottom eyelashes. He wondered how long a man would have to sleep to build up such a monumental crust. He had been having a lovely dream about a woman with fierce golden eyes. When she smiled, he could see that one of her front teeth was broken, yet it did not diminish her allure. He didn’t want to wake up. He wanted to go back to sleep and finish the dream.

  “I don’t feel like eating,” he said. His words sounded like the croaking of a frog.

  “I guess you want to die, then,” the voice replied, in English now. He recognized the feel of his own bed, but the revolting smell in his soddy was different than it had been before. It smelled like an unwashed body and the putrefaction of a wound. The memory of the wolf attack came flooding back into his consciousness.

  That got him moving. He lifted an unsteady hand and rubbed at his lashes, then peered at the woman’s face hovering above him. She was blurry, but he could make out almond-shaped eyes, skin the reddish brown of a cottonwood sapling, and a wise smile that reminded him of...

  “Shoe! Where’s Shoe?” he said, scrambling to sit up in bed. His head began to spin, and he flopped back down against the pallet a second later.

  “He is grazing the horses. Do not worry, Jacob Payne. He will be home for dinner.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Asha, Shoemowetochawcawe’s sister.”

  “You can’t be related. Your name is too easy to say.”

  The laughter was deep and rich, not the giggling of prim white ladies, nor the tittering of shy native women. He liked it instantly.

  “Shoemowetochawcawe’s outsized name is a reflection of his ego. I prefer your version of it. I have been calling him Shoe since I have been here. I do not think he likes that, which makes me quite happy.”

  “How long have I been out?” Judging by his feeble limbs, it must have been several days.

  “Three weeks.”

  “Three weeks! What happened to my geldings? Did the wolves get them?”

  He saw sadness drift into the amber eyes. His own began to water in response.

  “Only the gray. The chestnut is fine now that his wounds have mostly healed. Just like you. Your injuries were quite serious and became corrupt at one point, but in the end, your body and my honey poultices triumphed. But you will die if you do not eat. Open up,” she said, forcing a spoonful of bitter liquid down his throat.

  “That tastes horrible. What kind of food is that?”

  “It is medicine. Willow bark for your discomfort and Echinacea to speed healing. Now that you have had that, we will move on to the bone broth. Small sips until you get your strength back. We do not want you vomiting up all my work.”

  “You tricked me. I thought you were giving me food.”

  “Yes, but it was only a little trick due to your weakened state. My trickery knows no limits when I am dealing with a healthy, robust white man.” She tugged on a lock of his hair as she said the words.

  He reached a weak hand up to feel his scalp. “Did the preacher teach you English as well?”

  “Yes. I was the same age as his daughter when they came to our people. He taught my brother and me, along with Miriam and a few of the other children.”

  “That’s something I don’t get. Why would the Cheyenne accept a white man into their tribe?”

  “When he came to us and spoke about the Bible and tried to deliver his sermons, we thought he was masaha. A crazy person. We believe insane people are touched by the gods, and they are therefore considered sacred.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “By the time we understood he was merely a Christian preacher, he had proven himself useful for his patience with the children’s lessons. The elders were farsighted. They wanted us to learn the white man’s language, and Shoemowetochawcawe and I learned it the best. I think that is because we are competitive. It makes him grumpy to see his little sister do something better than him, and of course I always try to do everything better than him.”

  Jacob smiled. He loved the sing-song cadence of her speech. He thought he would like to listen to that voice for a long while, if he didn’t get too sleepy from the medicine.

  “I have a lot more questions,” he said, his eyelids beginning to droop.

  “Shoemowetochawcawe said you would. Go ahead. I am ready.”

  “How bad do I smell?”

  “I have smelled worse. But I will not lie, you are no field of yarrow flower. Do you know the scent of a bison carcass after it has rotted in the sun for a few days? Anyway, do not worry. I will give you a bath later, if you behave yourself.” The grin was now more playful than wise. It was the last thing he saw before his eyelids shut of their own accord.

  When they opened again the next morning, he sensed the house was empty, even before he could see that it was. Panic flowed through him. He was still too feeble to care for himself and he knew it. He sat up, then struggled to stand, realizing then the depth of his physical weakness. He looked down at his bandaged limbs, noting their thinness. His mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton, so when he saw the bucket of clean water by his bed, he collapsed with relief onto his pallet. Once his head stopped spinning, he filled the nearby tin cup three times and gulped down the water. He could almost feel it plumping out his insides, like Shoe’s bison bladder when he replenished it at the stream.

  Just then the door opened. Asha stood on the threshold, framed by a sky the color of the glass jars he had seen in Yankton’s apothecary shop. He thought the color was called cobalt. He wasn’t sure, though. He’d have to ask the next time he went to town for supplies. He was glad there would be a next time.

  “Hello, Jacob Payne. How are you feeling?” she said, bustling into the house.

  He had never been so happy to see a person in his life.

  “Much better. Thank you.” For some reason, he suddenly felt bashful. Her mischievous grin told him she had noticed.
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  “Very good. Every day from now on will be an improvement from the one before. Do you think you can walk? It is a beautiful day, and some fresh air will do you good. Also, I need to do some cleaning in here,” she added with a delicate sniff.

  “Yes, ma’am. I think I can manage that.”

  “My brother brought a stump from the creek for you to sit on and soak up the sunshine. While you were convalescing, spring arrived.”

  She was right. When he stepped outside, the snow had melted. The breeze was cool, but when he held his face up to the sun, it seemed to warm his soul. He breathed deeply of the crisp air, identifying the scents of new grass and budding trees. He would need to till the ground for planting as soon as it thawed. He pictured himself hitching the plow up to just the one horse, felt a stab of grief, and then pondered the prospect of trading something for a Cheyenne pony. Two horses could get the job done much faster than one. What did he have to trade that the natives would want?

  “How are you doing out here, Jacob Payne?” asked Asha, emerging through the soddy’s door with an armful of smelly bedding. The bundle went into his cauldron, filled now with boiling water and suspended above a smoky fire. He wondered how much of the dried dung was still left. He would need to gather more soon.

  “I’m doing just fine. I’m feeling mighty grateful, too. How can I ever repay what you’ve done for me?”

  “Perhaps you will come up with an idea,” she said, reaching into a pouch and tossing a handful of herbs into the water. With a hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun, she looked out to the rolling prairie beyond Shoe’s tepee. “There is our Cheyenne brave with the long name, returning home at last. Your chestnut has become close friends with Waynoka these past weeks. My brother will be happy to see you awake and sitting up. He has been worried about you.” She patted him on the shoulder, then went back inside. He listened to her humming a tune as she tidied up.

  He thought his heart might burst from the gratitude he felt for these two people. If it took the rest of his life, he would figure out a way to settle up.