“I think you just made that up,” sniffed Rain Girl.
Grass Child, Rain Girl, and their friend Willow Bud worked up and down the river with the women, cutting cottonwood sprouts and dragging them in the snow to the small herd of horses near camp.
Some of the men spent the winter days hunting small game. They ran rabbits into hollow logs, one end of which had been tightly sealed with mud or hard-packedsnow; then they plugged the other end with sagebrush and set it on fire and fanned the smoke into the log. As soon as the rabbit stopped squealing, they pulled out the smoking brush and grabbed the animal. Others built snares for snowshoe rabbits by hanging a noose of tough bark from a tree, baiting it with the tender inner bark of cottonwood sprouts.
One day, Grass Child stood still and listened. There seemed to be a faint sound everywhere—the murmur of waters, snow falling off tree limbs, and, barely audible, maybe imagined, a knocking sound far away up the river. With progressive speed and gathering power, day by day now, the sun wore away and tore apart the river ice. More and more water flowed as it melted on the surface and close to the banks. The Chinook winds hurried the melting, leaving the snow honeycombed with pockets of air. Soon the last support broke free on the river, the cracks became crevices, the whole ice moved, fragments and floes grinding and heaving, ice cakes tilted endwise, and the Big Muddy was true to her name, too thick to drink and too thin for yellow paint.
The Agaidükas lost only one old grandfather during the time of the snowy moon and freezing winds and considered themselves fortunate. The winter had been cold and long. Several horses were dead and good only for buzzard bait. The warm Chinook winds were a signal that the winter storytelling period was over. The women could go out now and dig roots in the thawed, soft mud and the men could hunt, easily following animal tracks in the soft earth.
By the time spring’s first signs appeared it was forbidden by social tradition to continue telling winter tales because of the belief that it would displease the old trickster, Coyote. During the long winter months the older members of the tribe had often gathered around someone’s center fire, smoked a mixture of kinnikin-nick, willow bark, and buffalo dung, in an atmosphere of leisurely storytelling. The people’s memories were refreshed with the most important tribal records in this way. But the winter tales always ended with the coming of spring, letting the younger women hunt roots and the younger men hunt game for the stew kettle.2 How-ever, once a story was started it had to continue until the end. Therefore, Grass Child continued making up dramatic events with her friend, Willow Bud. Each girl added a new thought as it occurred in order to lengthen the enjoyment of the story.
Grass Child was lying on her back near a smoldering center fire, looking through the smoke hole, inventing ideas to prolong a story she and Willow Bud had been telling for days. “And so, during the time there was water all over the land, Coyote paddled around until he found some geese.”
Willow Bud hitched her bare legs under the skirt of her tunic, took a deep breath and added, “Coyote asked those geese for feathers so that instead of paddling he could join them flying. The geese flew off to the nearest mountaintop for a powwow.”
Grass Child sat up, brushed a sleepy spring fly off her nose, and said, ‘Those geese decided to wash the whole earth and Coyote would have drowned but he pulled a white buffalo robe over the hole that lets water leak from the sky.”
Willow Bud laughed. “If we aren’t careful, we’ll finish our story and not be able to tell another until the snows begin again.”
Grass Child stood up. “Let’s look for something to eat. My belly cramps for want of food. I’d like to stuff myself and not have to share with anyone.”
Just then Fragrant Herbs poked her head in the tepee. “Girls, your daydreams are real! Come, listen.”
Grass Child and Willow Bud hurried to follow Fragrant Herbs outside. She put her hand over her mouth and they all listened. The camp crier was out, calling among the tepees on the other side of camp. ‘The scouts have sighted buffalo!” He continued to call as he came closer and closer to their side of the camp. “Everyone get ready!” By now everyone in camp was outside in the crisp spring air. There was happy chattering and questions. “When do we go?” “How many buffalo?” “Where are they located?”
The crier began his second round of the camp. “Hunters and strong women! Leave tomorrow morning! Due west to the high cliff! East of the Three Forks!”
Grass Child knew the spot exactly. There were a fewaspens, and the high ground was buff-colored and punctured with rock. At the bottom of the cliff, where the Old Muddy was joined by three wide, fast-moving branches, there were flat gravel beaches with wild strawberry patches sheltered by thick willows. Grass Child’s mouth watered. She was ready to go.
The scouts kept their horses at the spot they’d picked for the hunting camp and kept a watchful eye on the buffalo grazing on the brittle yellow grass left over from the previous season. Next morning more men on horseback and the strongest of the women and children, carrying cutting knives carved from animal bones and bundles of willow sticks wrapped with thin hides for temporary shelters, left the main camp.
Despite the still-chilly weather the men wore only breechclouts and moccasins and carried their bows and a quiver of arrows. A thin leather thong attached to the underjaw of the hunting horse served as a bridle. When the women arrived, they quickly set up camp at the junction of the eastern and middle fork. Looking from the crest of the hill overshadowing the main river, Grass Child could see how the Old Muddy broadened out on the untimbered valley plain. The eastern fork was more rapid, but not as deep nor as wide as the others.3
The men now motioned the women to leave the temporary camp and follow a little behind them up the northern bank and along the western fork. Then the men all moved out and forded the river, signaling for the women to wait there. The buffalo herd was close; the smell was rank and sharp. The Agaidüka hunting party was now about four miles up the western fork. The women remained quiet with their own thoughts. The few children who had been allowed to come stayed in little bunches, bragging to one another about the prowess of a father, brother, uncle, or grandfather.
The blue sky and scattering of white clouds were reflected in the pools of clear river water near the banks.
Willow Bud poked her elbow in Grass Child’s side. “My father will get most.”
Grass Child countered, “Mine will give away most.”
Rain Girl said, “Maybe our brother, Never Walks, will get a buffalo. Did you see how he rides a horse more gracefully than he walks on his own two feet? He’s meant to be on horseback.”
pity his woman— if he ever gets one,” giggled Willow Bud.
Fragrant Herbs scowled fiercely at the three noisy girls. “Hush! No one will get near a buffalo if you chatter like sparrows and giggle like loons,” she whispered loudly.
When it was quiet the girls could hear the snorting and bellowing of the buffalo being surrounded by hunters.
Grass Child spotted a wild strawberry blossom, then a trillium and a springbeauty. She hitched her way down to the springbeauty and her little fingers dug into the soft earth, feeling for the tiny bulb. She wiped it on her tunic and popped it into her mouth while her other hand looked for another delicious bit to eat. She ate another and another and stretched herself out in reach of one more. She heard something and looked up, holding her body tense, her eyes narrowed. Those were not buffalo chased by hunters coming around the crest and up the narrow river valley. Those were horses carrying riders she had never seen before.
Someone blew a shrill signal on a wing-bone whistle, and the intruders swarmed down into the valley and splashed across the river. Continuously they yelled, “Ki- yi!
The women screamed a warning for everyone to hide themselves. Grass Child looked around frantically, then ran to her sister and Willow Bud.
The ominous newcomers—black-and-yellow stripes painted down their chest—jumped down and advanced toward the women. Grass Chi
ld and Willow Bud ran behind some older children, with Fragrant Herbs and Rain Girl in the lead, heedless of the slippery grass on the ridge. Grass Child fell. A terrible cry burst upon her ears, louder, closer. A shot rang out, then another. This was the first time she had heard a flintlock, but she knew instantly it was the firestick the Agaidüka warriors spoke of. They had wanted to trade for them in the south with the Spanish, but the Spanish wouldnot trade their precious firesticks, not even for a fine Shoshoni horse.
Grass Child’s breath felt hot in her throat. She rose to her knees and looked toward the river. Willow Bud was on the bank. Grass Child looked up the embankment for her mother, who was dodging a black-and-yellow figure running with a war club raised ready to bring it down on her head.
“No!” yelled Grass Child as she ran up the hill.
As long as she lived, Grass Child never forgot the sound of that club. It reminded her of the squashing noise of a buffalo bladder full of water flung against a flat stone.
Quickly the attacker cut and pulled off the scalp with one powerful sweep. The face of Fragrant Herbs was red with blood; one leg twitched with unnatural rapidity. He had cut the scalp lock above one ear, and there was a single bloody braid dangling from his waiststring when Grass Child reached him.
With a cry she slashed the murderer’s face with her fingernails, scarifying it with three deep, red furrows. She saw a face with a big nose that was long and hooked like the beak of a buzzard. Evil, it looked grisly in the deepening shadows of late afternoon. Her scalp tingled. Another stranger rode his horse between Grass Child and Willow Bud, separating them. Grass Child found herself standing alone, staring at the strange rider. She turned and raced as hard as she could toward the riverbank where she had last seen Willow Bud. Her feet flew, and she did not feel the stones under them. Her lungs felt scorched. At the river’s edge she did not see Willow Bud; her feet slid in the mud. She slipped quietly into the cold water. She was a good swimmer, but never had she swum so frightened before. She could not breathe; water flooded her lungs; she choked. Finally, she let the current carry her downstream, where she bumped a sawyer just under the muddy water. She was sure she saw something move in the thicket of willows, so she clung to the sawyer and kept her head under as long as possible. She heard the splashing of water over the wild thumping of her heart, and before she could get the mud cleared from her eyes, she felt a blow onthe back of her head and for a brief moment felt herself sinking into the cold, watery darkness.
Grass Child opened her eyes. Her head hurt miserably. The sky was fading to a gray tinged with a few streaks of pink. She was bound facedown with thick thongs to the back of a scrawny pony, and, slowly moving her head and opening her eyes to a squint, she saw beside her one of the bays from her father’s stock. Her mind reeled, and plainly she heard her father speaking to Never Walks, his eldest: “A horse is a tool. Do not let him go dull. Some men break their beast until he has no will, only a sweating horror at their approach. These men know how to make a horse kill himself, how to make him do an added mile at top speed after he is ready to quit.”
Slowly she came up from the darkness that had surrounded her to the reality that she had imagined her father’s voice, and she smelled acrid smoke from the burning of hides and green willow. Her eyes watered as she looked at long plumes curling from the direction of the People’s hunting camp. Four yellow-and-black striped figures emerged at the top of a small bluff, each carrying a child. Grass Child dropped her head to the horse’s rump; her eyes closed, pushing out the sting with hot tears. She had recognized the children. Drummer, just learning to walk, and Blue Feather, a summer older. Both sons of Water Woman and Yellow Rope. Water Woman was somehow related to Grass Child’s mother. She remembered the women called each other sister. Small Man was kicking at his captor. He was the son of Red Eagle, who had been so full of thanksgiving at the boy’s birth that he had celebrated for more than a week, giving away all his belongings to members of the village. Last, there was Something Good, little son of the old Medicine Man and his youngest wife, Gall.
The sickening knowledge exploded inside Grass Child that the People were raided for ponies and children. These strangers had also been looking for the buffalo, but had found something better.
Taking horses from an enemy was not considered stealing, but an accepted practice of daring and wits.
All tribes initiated their young boys in the endless craft of stealing horses; how to study a herd to ascertain the leader, how to hold the rest together through him. But the taking of children and women to be used as slaves left a terrible debt unpaid.
Grass Child’s head ached cruelly, and she could feel blood oozing down the inside of her tunic from the wound. She had lost her moccasins. A strange, fierce-looking man reached for the leather thongs bound around the horse’s neck and led Grass Child to the group milling around at the bottom of the bluff. The man grinned from ear to ear as he lifted his hand in pretense of slapping her if she cried out. He had a puckered white scar across his forehead. The four naked boys had been tied on horses. Grass Child recognized the horses as coming from the People’s herd.
She moved her head to the other side, then let it drop to ease the pain, then opened her eyes. In front of her were some Agaidüka women tied to scrawny beasts, the mistreated horses of their captors. She was about to shout to them when a quirt across her back stopped her. It felt like fire. Gradually the pain subsided. Someone tied her feet around the horse’s belly with a long piece of rawhide. It dawned on her that she would be going with these strange people. She tried to kick out.at the man tying her feet. She could not see him. She could hear his low belly laugh. Two others came and stood close to her face; one was Buzzard Beak, who pointed to the three slashes on his face. The men laughed and talked as if teasing Grass Child for fighting them.
Then they mounted their shy, scrawny horses. Some led prisoners on horseback; others led only the beautiful Agaidüka horses. As they trotted down the valley, Grass Child twisted, trying to look back. The effort agitated the welt across her back, and she cried out. Someone slapped her on the side of the face, opening the head wound. It was the ugly-looking fellow with the white scar across his forehead, and he lifted his hand in pretense of slapping her again if she called out. She felt blood ooze down her neck. Scar Face mounted a horse and took up the reins of one behind that seemed too weary to put one foot in front of the other. Grass Child blinked in disbelief. Willow Bud was sitting upright onthis tired old horse. The eyes of the girls met, but they dared not speak. Again, hot tears stung Grass Child’s eyes. Her head throbbed in time to the throbbing in her back. She sobbed quietly. In her grief she could not even sing the shrill mourning song of the People. Her mind refused to go over the day’s events.
They rode all night, never stopping. Grass Child began to wonder if her father and some of the other warriors were on their trail, following. Surely he would come with her brothers if he could find the trail. Was Rain Girl with them, she wondered, or was Rain Girl— Her mind could go no farther. Only the sound of that watery thud came clear and sharp in her mind, and the sight of her mother’s limp, bloody form lying in a crumpled heap in the dust.
It took all of her strength to stay out of the dark, endless pit that pulled her downward. She was determined not to give in to that sinking feeling where the blackness rushed over the top of her head. In the early-morning light she looked, trying to find Willow Bud or Rain Girl among the semi-naked riders.
Soon the sun’s rays shone warm and the birds were singing. Grass Child saw that they were traveling northeast along the Big Muddy. She wanted to tell this discovery to Willow Bud. Finally she could no longer fight, and she slept without wanting to. In the warmth of the sun the deep cut across her back began to smart and swell. She felt it throb with each stride of the horse. When the sun was overhead they stopped by a stream. Her mother’s murderer, Buzzard Beak, removed her bonds and pulled the tunic down from her shoulders, loosening it from the back wound. He left it tied a
t her waist. When he lifted her down, she could hardly stand on her sore legs for the first few moments. He took jerky from a pouch and offered her some. She turned away. He pushed her toward the stream. He motioned for her to kneel down in the fashion of squaws and drink. The water tasted good. She scooped some and let it splash her face and the back of her head where her hair was matted with dried blood, but when it touched her back below her shoulders the hurt was too much. Willow Bud had knelt beside her. Grass Child wanted to put herarms around her friend. “Don’t touch me,” warned Willow Bud, “he will strike us. He comes from a large village in the east,” she added softly, “called Minnetaree.”
“How do you know this?” asked Grass Child.
“Hush, not so loud. The old Agaidüka, Moon Woman, is riding near me, and she said it in the night. She recognized their hunting paint and several words.”
“Where is Rain Girl?”
“I last saw her behind a juniper with some little children.”
“Dig your knees deep so as to leave some sign that women drank here,” said Grass Child, turning some stones so that their heavy sides leaned against one another, a call for aid. “I think my father will come after us.”
Farther up the stream, Scar Face pulled his hands from the water. He drank so as to leave no sign but the tips of his moccasins, and then blurred these. He sauntered toward the girls and kicked hard against the side of Willow Bud, knocking her to the ground, blurring her knee sign. He motioned for her to get back up on the horse that was grazing. She tried to tell him he didn’t have to kick, she would go. But he jerked her up and made some guttural sounds as if scolding her. Grass Child found her horse; she could not mount him, for her back hurt too much. Buzzard Beak threw her belly-first, on the horse. Somehow she managed to get one leg over, and rode sitting up. They rode with the sun striking at their backs.
Soon, Grass Child wanted another drink. Her legs ached worse than ever, and the throbbing in her thin back continued on and off like dull waves. She tried to look at her captors. She tried to think about where they lived. She could tell they were not very good horsemen. She felt sorry for the Agaidüka horses because these men had no regard for the physical welfare of the animals, running them at full speed over the stony ground and making no halts to breathe them. Even an Agaidüka papoose like Drummer knew enough to treat a horse well so that he would treat his rider well. The captors’ horses had not been brushed to make their hides shine. Their hides were matted with sticks fromthe low brush. Most of the captors looked younger than Grass Child’s father. They all had muddy red circles painted around their eyes, making them look alike and hideous. The only two Grass Child could distinguish were Buzzard Beak and Scar Face.
Sacajawea Page 5