The Fire Arrow

by Richard S. Wheeler

  The landscape was changing and the river was running in a narrower valley flanked by high sandstone bluffs. That was a good sign. But he questioned whether he could go much farther; his body was finally rebelling. He sensed he might be within five miles of Victoria’s village, maybe less. He had no way of knowing.

  He heard the distant howl of wolves high up on the ridges to the north but heard no answering howl, and then heard only the silence of deep night. He thought it might not be long to dawn, but he saw no streak of light on the southeastern horizon, only the slow-ticking darkness.

  The hunger pangs were returning now, not sharp as before, but cold and sullen. His body was telling him it needed nourishment or it would quit on him.

  He ignored the trouble; there wasn’t a thing he could do about his hunger except push it aside, pretend that his body wasn’t howling at him. He was arguing with his body now, trying to impose his will upon it, as if it somehow would heed his wishes. But his steps were shorter and slower, and he knew he was reaching the end. They would have to quit. For a day and much of a night he had walked.

  The mare snorted. Then whickered softly.

  Skye stopped cold. That was horse talk. He had heard it a thousand times. The mare snorted again, a soft low rumble down in her throat.

  Victoria came awake, slid off the mare, and took the lead line, holding the horse in place. Jawbone stood, questioning his mother. Skye edged forward, seeing little, unsure of what he was looking for. Jawbone danced along beside him, sometimes sniffing the night air, smelling something that Skye didn’t smell.

  Then the colt cut to the right, down a grade, and squealed. Skye hated to be given away by that miserable renegade but padded softly down the slope toward the river, which ran through grassy bottoms. Then he saw the shifting shapes of horses, lots of horses, some of them edging close to him. The colt stopped and snorted.

  Now there was a great stirring of the herd. Skye thought he might be in real danger. In a moment he was surrounded by horses, which stared alertly at him, ready to break away, stampede. But they didn’t.

  Maybe Crow horses. He tried a few words of the tongue they might know: hello, friend, four-foots, and finally Absaroka, the name Victoria’s people gave to themselves.

  She came up beside him. “We have come,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  These pronouncements had always mystified him. The Indians knew things in ways he could never grasp.

  “We’re likely to get shot.”

  “I will walk among them. They know me.”

  “How can they possibly know you?”

  “We are sisters and brothers.”

  She handed the mare’s lead line to Skye, and wandered slowly into the mass of animals, talking softly to them. They did not bolt but soon collected around her. He heard one tiny squeal, and that proved to be from Jawbone, who was being examined by the boss mares of this herd.

  He tried desperately to see whether there were herders on this wintry night and worried that they would shoot first and ask questions later. But he saw no mounted form rise out of the dark.

  “Come,” Victoria said, a sudden lilt in her voice, the song in it celebrating her safe return to her people. She walked ahead, this time with Jawbone cutting through the animals like a ship’s prow, and on across a broad but protected grassland bordering the river.

  The pale slice of moon caught the quiet cones ahead, which were arranged in a great arc under the shelter of sandstone cliffs. Skye followed; this was now out of his hands. The herd mysteriously stopped, as if some invisible fence lay between the village and the pasture, though no fence did. And then they were clear of the village herd.

  Before them stood the stately Crow lodges. Smoke eddied from a few, caught by the pale moon, but most stood silent and dark, the thin walls of buffalo hide protecting these people from all the evils of the night.

  She knew exactly where to go, her step lithe and purposeful, and he followed slowly, aware that the mare’s clopping behind him must sound like an invading army to these sleeping people. But no one exploded out of a door flap. And then she stopped before a certain lodge. He could not tell one from another, yet he knew this would be her brother’s lodge. She scratched softly on the door and waited, while a small cloud slid over the moon and took away the light.

  fifteen

  Again, according to the polite Crow custom, Victoria scratched softly on the lodge door flap of her brother Two Dogs and waited. Victoria’s other kin were with the Kicked-in-the-Bellies band on the Big Horn this season. To Skye, feeling his own weariness soak him, the wait seemed interminable. But at last the flap parted slightly, and Skye recognized Night Stalker, one of Two Dogs’ wives. She stared, absorbing the pitiful sight, and muttered something. The flap closed. Skye heard stirrings and the flap parted once again.

  Two Dogs had awakened and was tossing dry grass onto the coals of the fire. It smoked and then broke into a small flame, immediately lighting the lodge. The other wife, Parts Her Hair, was hastily pulling a robe over her hips. Two Dogs had chosen her for his mating this night.

  Two Dogs summoned his sister and Skye with a wave of the hand, and Skye crawled into the warm and fragrant lodge, which also contained this family’s three children ranging from infant to teen.

  “Ah! Many Quill Woman! We may say your name at last!” said Two Dogs, a greeting that acknowledged that this family thought she had died.

  Victoria sank into the robes, and Skye settled down beside her.

  Then Jawbone poked his head and neck through the door.

  “Aaee!” said Parts Her Hair, scrambling up, mostly naked, to chase the animal out.

  Two Dogs stayed her with a barked word.

  “Who is this?” he asked Skye.

  “It is Jawbone, the foal of a mare that brought us here. He is a horse with medicine. His mother came to us, brought by the magpies, and saved my wife. She has great spirit.”

  “So he is. Welcome him,” Two Dogs said to his wives.

  They pulled the flap open and the colt stepped in.

  “He is not a handsome horse but he is a horse that is destined to serve you well. Now, Mister Skye, tell us your news while my women heat some buffalo stew.”

  Skye did not mention his hunger or that neither he nor Victoria had eaten in two days. Their plight was obvious to this family. The children lay wide-eyed in their robes now, studying the visitors.

  “My blessings upon this lodge of Two Dogs,” Skye said.

  It was this ritual that smoothed over the life of the Crows, and Skye remembered it now.

  “And the blessings of Two Dogs goes out to his sister and her man.”

  This called for tobacco, so Two Dogs motioned to Night Stalker for his beaded pouch. She handed it to him, careful not to touch the pipe within, and he tamped tobacco into the pipe, with its bowl of red pipestone, and then lit it with a coal. He puffed and handed it to Skye, who puffed, though he hardly had energy for it. He wanted only to collapse into a warm robe in this safe place.

  But there were rituals to perform, and only if they were performed could the peace and safety of the lodge be kept. And so they kept the ritual. It was also a way of preparing the lodge for the story that would follow. These kin and all of Chief Robber’s village knew of the disaster up in the Judith basin, but none of them knew Skye and Victoria’s story and believed they had perished.

  Skye felt the tobacco quiet him, and struggled to stay awake while Two Dogs studied him calmly. At last Skye was able to narrate the story of their struggle against the north wind that had brought down an early winter upon them. How close Victoria was to death. How slowly Victoria’s wound healed. How weak she remained. His Crow was rudimentary, but they sat patiently as he struggled for words. His tale of hardship, of wolves, of cold and heavy snow, of hunting for firewood, and of the miraculous appearance of the bony mare and her ugly colt, all caught their fancy, and they listened soberly. Skye told of being robbed b
y the traders named Fitzgerald and did not neglect to tell how ardent spirits had been employed to rob them.

  Victoria, he saw, was falling asleep. No one awakened her.

  When the stew was steaming, Parts Her Hair, who didn’t bother with her fallen-down robe, ladled it with a horn spoon into two bowls. She shook Victoria gently and when Victoria emerged from her stupor, handed one bowl to her and the other to Skye. He ate gratefully, relishing the hot meat broth. He spooned it into him, admiring Parts Her Hair, whose honeyed flesh glowed in the firelight.

  The Crows never bothered with decorum, and Skye had been a long while getting used to it. Unlike other tribes, the Crows mated anywhere and everywhere, in public or in private. Skye’s whole instinct had been to back away, turn his head, retreat, but that had only won hoots from Victoria, who thought Skye was being prissy. She often teased him about it, and Skye didn’t mind the teasing because it always led to good times.

  Two Dogs spoke to his older son, and the youth, clad in leggins and breechcloth, rose out of his robes, steered Jawbone out the lodge door, and pulled the robe from the mare.

  “He will take your horses out to the herd, and we will see that they are watched over,” Two Dogs said. “When sun returns to light my way, I will go out to the herd with you, and you will show me this medicine mare and this colt you call Jawbone. For mark my words. There has come into my lodge this night an animal unlike any I have ever seen. We Absaroka know more about horses than any other people. We have more and better horses. They live in the mountains south of the Yellowstone River. We have beautiful horses, sleek and fast. But this ugly one … it is upon me to tell you that I felt the presence of a power I have not before experienced.”

  Skye nodded. In truth, he could no longer keep his eyes open. Food, warmth, safety, comfort, all conspired against wakefulness. Two Dogs watched him sharply. “We welcome our friend and kin Mister Skye, and honor the Great Walk, for it will always be known to us as the Great Walk,” Victoria’s brother said, and Skye’s last recollection was someone drawing a robe over him on the right side of the lodge, the place of honor, and then he was lost to the night and to the great village of Chief Robber.

  When he woke the next day he was confused, hardly able to sort out the scents and sights around him. Clearly it was midday, not morning. He did not see Victoria. He was uncertain about the young Absarokas who studied him solemnly.

  Two Dogs’ lodge. Safety. Warmth.

  He sat up, rattled, ashamed of oversleeping and impeding the daily life of these people. He wrapped a robe around him and poked his head out of the door, surprised to find the sun behind him. This east-facing lodge had seen the sun rise and begin to set as he slept.

  Outside, sitting on a reed backrest, was Two Dogs, wrapped in a red Hudson’s Bay trade blanket and enjoying a mild November day.

  “Ah, Mister Skye! You have returned from your long trip,” he said. “Come enjoy the afternoon. Your story has won the hearts of the People and they wish to see you. All day they have walked by here, looking for a word with you, a chance to see the Walker.”

  Parts Her Hair, now dressed primly in buckskins, smiled sweetly and began warming some ribs of buffalo for Skye.

  “Where is Many Quill Woman?” Skye asked.

  “She has gone to the sweat lodge to purify herself. She has some sweetgrass to put on the fire, and its scented smoke will drive the sickness out of her.”

  Skye settled down beside his host. He discovered both the mare and Jawbone tethered to the lodge and eating some dry grass that had been harvested for them.

  “That colt, Mister Skye. I see wings in the sky above it. I see lances and battle-axes. It is a warhorse. It is the greatest of warhorses.”

  “Your vision is larger than mine,” Skye said. “I see an ugly little gray thing with a jaw that is too large for its head, and a madness in its eyes.”

  Two Dogs laughed. “We shall see,” he said.

  “I am indebted to you,” Skye said.

  “There is no debt among kin. You were dead and now are alive. The women are sewing skins and before the sun sets they will have a new lodge for you. My sons are gathering our horses and you will take your pick. You will need four or five. We are rich in horses and you are not. Chief Robber’s wives have brought you two robes, and his sons have brought you a forequarter of buffalo cow, killed only two days ago. There will be other gifts in your lodge, including a hackamore and other horse tack, and parfleches filled with pemmican, and a spare dress and leggins for your woman.”

  “I have no way to repay you.”

  “You already have. Your Hawken barked many times, felling buffalo for this village, protecting it from the thieving Blackfeet. Someday, we hope, you will have enough robes to trade for another rifle. I hear tell of a new Buffalo gun called a Sharps, but it is only a whisper. No one has ever seen one.”

  “Never heard of it,” Skye said.

  Even as he sat, blotting up the mild sun, a band of ponies wended its way through the village, driven by half a dozen Crow boys. Skye knew they would stop before him, and he would be given his choice.

  Two Dogs rose and waited, and then nodded to Skye when the herd reached this warm place in the sun, milling and churning, restless at being in the middle of Chief Robber’s village. Skye’s brother-in-law nodded. Skye stood slowly, doffed his top hat, and studied the horses. He was a seaman, a mountain man, not half the expert with these animals as his hosts, who knew everything there was to know about horseflesh.

  Jawbone trotted into the herd, began butting animals, and in a minute had isolated four quivering ponies, a mare and three stallions, two of them yearlings, one older. They were fine animals.

  Skye marveled. Two Dogs laughed softly.

  “He is telling you,” Two Dogs said.

  Skye nodded, and watched that colt butt the older horses until they were out of the herd. Jawbone was no horse; he was something Skye couldn’t explain, something that had no words to express it.

  sixteen

  Walks to the Top was in no hurry to receive his visitor so Skye waited in the winter cold. The old man held the office of Tobacco Planter, and thus was deeply esteemed among the Absaroka. He was also a seer, a visionary. Skye had little to give this eminent man but had brought him an armload of firewood for a gift. It wasn’t much of a gift from a male, because the gathering of firewood was woman’s work. But he had nothing else to give, being a pauper. A gift of tobacco would have served better. A haunch of buffalo still better for the old man was totally dependent on the village to keep him alive and warm and well.

  Jawbone didn’t like the cold wait, and butted Skye.

  “Avast!” Skye bellowed.

  Jawbone only laid back his ears and lowered that thick skull and pushed at Skye’s midriff. The little colt didn’t want this interview.

  At last the arrogant old man deigned to open his flap, eye his visitor and the colt, stare at the modest heap of small sticks, and nod. It was not an invitation to enter.

  Skye summoned up his rudimentary Crow tongue. “I have come to seek your wisdom, Grandfather.”

  “I have no wisdom for you.”

  “It is about this colt.”

  “That is the worst excuse for an animal I have seen.”

  “A magpie, the spirit guide of my wife, brought this colt and his mother to us at a time of great need. The mare saved the life of my wife.”

  The Tobacco Planter stared, and then Skye saw mockery in the man’s face. He didn’t believe a word of Skye’s story.

  Jawbone detached himself from Skye and pushed toward the old man until he stood inches away, his muzzle almost in Walks to the Top’s face.

  “He has something else. Something rare. A will, a force.”

  “Cut its throat.”

  “I am seeking your counsel about him. I have given him a name. He is Jawbone. What will he be? A buffalo runner? A warhorse? A hunting horse?”

  “No good will come of him. This I see. This animal should be driv
en from the village. Give him to the Piegans so they may suffer this colt’s evil.”

  Jawbone lowered his head softly and pressed it into the old man’s chest, pushing him back toward the lodge door.

  “Jawbone!” Skye yelled, and grabbed the colt by the mane and pulled him back. But the insult had been done. The wizened old man, prominent and powerful among the People, had been offended by a colt.

  The old Tobacco Planter straightened himself and drew a blue and black trade blanket about him, eyeing the colt, and Skye, with an obsidian gaze that raked them both. He wore the insignia of his rank, including a bearclaw necklace, a powerful reminder that he was not to be trifled with.

  “Tell this to The Robber; tell it to the headmen, for I have said it. This village will know no peace, no comfort, no food, no heat, no buffalo, no safety, no new children, no honor until this monstrous creature is removed and the village is cleansed with sweats and prayers.”

  Skye stood frozen. It would be up to him to report, faithfully, the exact words of the old Tobacco Planter to the headmen.

  “I do not want your wood,” the old man said. “Bring something that does you honor. Not this.” He pushed his moccasin into the piled wood and scattered it.

  “Suppose I don’t bring this colt into the village but keep him and his mother in the herd … I am indebted to the mother. She carried Many Quill Woman all the way here, though the old mare was perishing from the want of feed, and because she was nursing this colt.”

  “I have spoken,” Walks to the Top said, cutting off all further discussion. The old man’s eyes betrayed something that Skye had not fathomed before: a contempt for strangers in the midst of this Absaroka village. For a pauper.

  He leisurely turned, showing his blanketed back to Skye for too long, and then slipped into his cold lodge. Skye stood there, ripped asunder. Behind him stood the village, nestled under the snowcapped sandstone cliff lining the north bank. Here in a peaceful bottomland the Musselshell River meandered through lush grasses and cottonwood and willow groves. A low autumnal sun heated the sandstone cliff each day, and far into each night the cliff radiated its stored warmth upon these fortunate and comfortable people.