by Mark Wildyr
AT LONG last, the chinooks blew a warm breath across the Mead, giving false promise of spring and making further delay an unbearable burden. When the weather eventually broke, we undertook a horseback trek to the winter grounds the first week of the thaw. Bedding down in the snow had never been my favorite pastime. However, a snow cave with Cut Hand’s big form wrapped around me was a surprisingly comfortable shelter.
The camp was in decent shape. Yellow Puma was not. He still coughed and raled as badly as last autumn. I broke out the Pandora’s box of medical supplies and got some saffron down the man. Within an hourglass, his persistent hack eased. I looked up old Spotted Hawk and turned over some of the medicine, suggesting it helped to alleviate the croup. When he asked after the manner of its administration, I knew Yellow Puma would be medicated until the shaman’s supply ran out.
As I walked out of Spotted Hawk’s tipi, gunfire broke out to the east. A young guardsman raced in from the horse herd, yelling that two white men had snatched a couple of horse tenders. Otter was one of the youngsters taken.
Leaping aboard our mounts, Cut and I raced to where the abduction occurred. The tracks told the story. The ruffians had the boys double-mounted with them. I did not know the other lad, but Otter was around twelve or thirteen and good-sized for his age. The men must have knocked them in the head and tied them in some manner.
“Man-stealers,” I muttered. “They will sell the boys as slaves.”
The shock in Cut’s eyes changed to rage. Without another word, we crossed the ha-ha and sped along the plainly laid trail. From the look of the tracks, their mounts were big horses, no match for the small, tough Indian ponies.
We dogged the fleeing men as they tried but failed to cross to the Yanube in three different places. The tracks were growing fresher, and Cut’s natural caution reestablished itself none too soon. An angry bee buzzed between us, followed seconds later by a distant report. A heavy-caliber rifle! Buffalo hunters.
Cut dismounted and worked his way along the riverbank while I took Long over a rise opposite the point where I thought it likely the shot had been fired. Dismounting, I topped the hill and saw one of the men advantaging a rock fall at the edge of the water to track Cut’s movements. The other desperately tried to coax his balky mount into the water with his captives tied to trailing ropes. The fool! The boys, both afoot, would be swept away and drowned if he managed to get his horse into the stream. Cut would have to fend for himself. My rifle ball punched the man from his saddle. He flailed in the rapids and disappeared downstream.
The second man whirled and loosed a shot that knocked me from my feet. Stunned of mind and numbed of body, I crawled through the snow to the ridge, straining to see what had occurred below. One of the boys, still tethered to a nervous horse, rushed the man who shot me and was slapped to the ground. That cost the ruffian dearly. Cut’s ball entered one side of his head and exited the other. This was more than the horse could stand. It bolted, dragging the boys along behind.
Still not certain of how badly I was hit, I staggered to Long and clawed my way aboard. The panicky runaway was not hard to catch. The boys’ unaccustomed drag slowed him considerably. Unwilling to risk truly stampeding the pony, I took up a second rifle and spent anxious seconds trying to draw a steady aim. My eyesight faded in and out, but I managed to shoot the beast before pitching headlong into the snow.
I WOKE after dark in a tipi with Cut sitting at my right and Yellow Puma on my left. Spotted Hawk hovered over me. “What…?” I asked before exhaustion robbed me of speech.
“The ball bounced off your thick skull,” Cut joked feebly, and I knew I would live.
“Drink this,” Spotted Hawk ordered, shoving a buffalo-horn cup filled with some vile concoction beneath my nose. I almost threw up.
“Otter?” Did that horrid croak really issue from my throat?
“He is well. They both are. Bruises and scrapes and sore heads.”
That was all I heard until morning. Finding myself abandoned, I managed to crawl to my feet and stagger outside without falling flat on my face. Otter was immediately at my side to lend a steadying hand. I mussed his hair.
“Good to see you, boy,” I said.
“Boy!” he snorted. “Who’s a boy? I was about to jump that man and knock him from the saddle when you robbed me of my opportunity. Then you scared the horse and nearly killed us.”
“Such gratitude,” I snorted at him. “You’re as bad as Little Eagle.”
He sobered. “Thank you, Teacher. Don’t tell anybody, but I was scared. Why did those men want us?”
“To sell you to someone who would chain you and work you as a slave for the rest of your lives,” I answered, seeking to frighten him into greater caution.
There was a dance that night to celebrate the boys’ safe delivery, but these people danced at the drop of a hat. The drums and rattles and whistles about tore my poor aching head from its wretched neck.
We returned to Teacher’s Mead when I could sit a horse decently. It may have been the merest coincidence, but the moment our homestead hove into view, my head mended. Feeling fitter than I had for a week, I insisted on checking the dogs and livestock. Repelled by the mess in the barn, I sat on the front porch and worried with saws and hammers and planes until I had a good start on a tumbrel to cart manure. When he finished with whatever he was doing, Cut joined me on the porch and watched as I whittled a wheel into the round.
“Do you know how frightened I was?” he asked at length. “When that buffalo hunter fired, and you fell to the ground, I thought I would die. I jumped up and ran straight at him. I wanted to hatchet the man to death! I wanted his scalp! Then Otter kicked at him, and I was afraid for the boy, so I shot the boy-stealer. I was relieved when you got up and rode after the runaway. But when I caught up, you were flat on your face sucking wet snow into your lungs.” He looked at me intently. “Don’t ever frighten me that way again.”
I returned his stare but held my tongue for a long moment, savoring what I saw in those strange gold-flecked black eyes. Finally I laid a hand on his corded arm. “Now I truly believe you love me. You understand the small death I die with each raid you undertake. Remember this feeling the next time you needlessly expose yourself to risk.”
He chose to ignore my gentle rebuke. “If that is love, it is a terrible thing.”
“Yes, but it is a wonderful terrible thing. Aren’t we anxious when one of the dogs is threatened, or the ponies, or our home? How much more so when the thing in danger is our half-life, our other self?”
“Is there no way to experience love without this fearsome thing?”
“None. Think on it. You fear for Yellow Puma and your family, even for Bear Paw and Little Eagle and Otter. Why would you not fear for me?”
He considered this and answered, “But it is deeper and more awesome than other fears.”
I thought quietly for a moment. “Isn’t that because the rewards of our love are deeper and more awesome? Nature balances things, Cut. The rewards we accord one another are weightier, so the penalties are heavier.”
“You are a better Yanube than I, Billy. You travel the straight Red Road. You have found your Special Direction, what our Lakota friends call the Seventh Direction, while I still search for mine.”
“Nonsense! If ever someone had a proper sense of direction, it is you. You undercut your value to me—and to your people.”
“My people can wait,” he said through a tight throat. “Right now, I want to love you right here in the open so prying eyes can understand what I feel for you.”
“Then do it. Some, should they see us, will understand; others will believe we are merely dogs copulating in the dust.”
“Then their opinion will not matter.”
He came to me and gently touched the scabbed flesh at my temple. The finger moved to my cheek. He tipped my chin upward and covered my lips with his. When he stepped back, I slipped his buckskin shirt over his head, revealing his sculpted chest and deep armpi
ts. His dark, almost black areolas roused me mightily. He released his chaps and loincloth to stand gloriously naked, his flesh puckering in the early spring air.
I rushed to throw off my clothing, but Cut stayed my hand, preferring to accomplish that himself. Then he laid me on the cold planking of the porch and covered me with his warm, muscled body. Before I knew what he intended, he slipped down my torso and did for me what I did for him, almost costing me too much. Once my senses were sated, he thrummed me lustily. Finished at last, he grasped my hand and raised it into the air with a great shout.
“This is my beloved win-tay to whom I have just been a husband! This is my beloved win-tay, whom I have pleasured like the man he is!”
The words echoed against the three hills of our homestead. One of the dogs—West, I think—howled in response.
Chapter 8
CUT HAND was more a mother hen than a husband after our scrape with the man-stealers. He hovered close every minute of the day, but I was patient, allowing time to dim the memory of his fright. Eventually he resumed hunting and fishing and racing Arrow against other ponies when the tiospaye moved but a mile east of us in the spring. Many of the young men were inveterate gamblers, and while Cut was not immune to the affliction, neither did he indulge it to our bankruptcy.
Yellow Puma seemed to repair slightly, yet he was not well. Badger played the flute, sending his love medicine to Butterfly, but things were not to the point where anyone was making predictions. I sincerely hoped she would see he was a good man.
Spring and summer were ideal. Skan, the sky, remained mostly a clear blue, and Tate, his companion-brother, the wind, laid a gentle kiss upon Maka, the earth. Wakinyan came to cleanse and nourish sparingly.
One day, two squads of dragoons led by three officers galloped into the Mead. The dogs put up such a fuss, one of the men pulled a pistol.
“I would not do that, were I you!” I called from the porch.
“Then call the beast off,” the senior officer yelled.
I gave the signal, and South slunk back to the porch. Two of the officers dismounted. A third saw to the men. With some unease, I wondered how long it would take Cut to get here.
“Am I addressing Mr. William Strobaw?” the captain asked as he removed a military hat to wipe sweat from his forehead with a blue sleeve.
“You are,” I replied shortly, still miffed over the threat to my dog.
“Captain Charles Jamieson, at your service, sir. And this is Second Lieutenant James Morrow.”
The captain was a mutton-chopped man in his thirties, the lieutenant a baby-faced blond not more than a few months out of the Point. When he finished dismounting the troop, a more seasoned lieutenant with a silver shoulder bar was introduced as Smith. This latter officer left me discomfited in some ill-defined way.
I decided to be civil. “What can I do for you gentlemen? I can offer tea or coffee, but I do not traffic in spirits.”
“No, thank you.” The captain shook his head. “I believe you are the trader for a band that calls itself the Yanube.” At my nod, he continued. “This is a courtesy call to let you know we are building a fort on the upper reaches of the river some fifty miles to the northwest. You are now under the majestry of the Yanube River Military District. We will patrol this area on an irregular basis to accustom the savages to our presence. You may call on us at any time in case of trouble.”
“Thank you, sir, but I will have no trouble. The Yanube are peaceful and disposed to mind their own business.”
“Are they praying Indians or heathens?”
“They are not Christians but are devoted to their own system of belief. You won’t find better people, Captain. They offer no trouble, only friendship.”
“Trouble does not always come from the direction you expect, Mr. Strobaw,” the officer warned. “Renegade white men are beginning to appear in the territory, and the Sioux are showing signs of restlessness. I take it this band is Sioux.”
“Siouan, is more like it. They are undoubtedly kin but are not a part of the Seven Council Fires.”
The officer’s expressive eyes showed interest in my description of the Sioux, but he moved on to his next question. “If I understand correctly, there are other Indians in the area.”
“The Pipe Stem Draw People claim lands to the west. These two bands tend to rub up against one another, and there is trouble now and then, but usually nothing too serious.”
“How are the tribesmen armed, Mr. Strobaw?” Smith put in.
“Lightly. They are no threat, as I have said.”
“I would like to visit this Yanube village if you will direct me toward it.”
“You have not asked my advice. However, should it be sought, I would send one man under flag to the village to request permission,” I replied.
“I thought you said they were friendly.” Smith’s voice snapped.
“Not hostility, sir, but courtesy. But I see some of them are here now.”
Surprised, the military officers turned in the direction I indicated. Not one of the men had been aware of the Indians’ approach. Cut, accompanied only by Bear Paw and Little Eagle, topped the eastern hummock and trotted toward us. All were armed, but the weapons were not displayed threateningly. Otter would be close by to summon help if it was needed.
“Captain Jamieson,” I said when my mate slid from Arrow’s back. “This is Cut Hand, scion of the People of the Yanube. His father, Yellow Puma, is chief of the band.”
The captain saluted. “Mr. Strobaw, would you please tell him—”
“I speak your language, Captain,” Cut interrupted.
“Excellent!” The captain introduced his officers and repeated the essentials he related to me. I expected Cut to show off his command of English, but he was sparing with his words about halfway to the point of rudeness.
The troops left soon thereafter. In all that time, the blond-headed officer, Lieutenant Morrow, had said nothing. He was the junior of the bunch and likely stood a little below the meanest sergeant in his comrades’ estimation. The shavetail rode his gelding with an excellent seat—one most likely learned as a child at his father’s manor. Aristocracy playing soldier, I judged.
“I don’t like it!” Cut raged as the dragoons disappeared to the west. “Nobody asked them to come here. How can they just move in like that?”
“Ask the Mohawks,” I said, “and the Shawnee and the Six Nations. These Americans do what you and the Sioux did when you came to this country. Nobody invited you. You had the strongest warriors, so you moved in. Now the Americans do the same.”
Little Eagle fumed. “Are you claiming they are stronger than we are?”
“I know a little about the American military. If there’s a fort, then there are at least two hundred soldiers. Can you raise two hundred warriors?”
“One of the People is worth—”
“As many of the enemy as he can kill. Unfortunately that is true of the soldiers also. Besides, you don’t have artillery pieces capable of throwing a shell over that hillock and shattering this whole building.”
“Nobody has that!” Bear Paw snorted.
“Teacher does not lie,” Cut said quietly. “He told us this day would come. He told us how it would happen. When he speaks, we must listen and learn.”
RESPLENDENT IN red sash and suspenders, that night I sat on the blanket with the headmen at council to discuss the visit by the Long Knives and the new fort to the west. The entire tiospaye congregated in the clearing before Yellow Puma’s dwelling to hear the debate. Fortunately most of the hotheads had not yet earned a man’s name or counted coup or earned a right to speak at council, else the attitude might have been worse than it was. At last Yellow Puma asked my opinion.
“The decision how to treat these soldiers belongs to the People, but if I can shed light on the situation, I will be pleased to do so. This is the army that defeated the great British redcoats in the east almost sixty winters ago. They beat the tribes east of the Father of Waters and
shoved them to the far shore. Some have resisted. None have stood against them. But this is a big country, so they will be slow to swallow this land.”
“They have a stronghold west of us!” Lodge Pole cried.
“And they have already been to the western ocean, as I told you. But it will take time for the Americans to come in such numbers as to seriously threaten you. Were I in authority, I would send messengers to the Seven Council Fires and even the Pipe Stem to see what they intend to do. Then I would decide what is best for the women and children who will inherit what you sow. I would not be guided by pride and arrogance, but by what is best for the People.”
Then I told of the great numbers of soldiers back east and enumerated the forts along the Missouri and to the west. I explained about the big guns, the artillery pieces.
After trying to frighten them to death, I explained the great debate over black slavery and the rifts in the white man’s world, expressing the opinion that one day these men would fight among themselves. I told of the rumors of trouble in Tejas. In short, I tried to give these proud, peaceful people some hope in the face of the apocalypse rolling headlong onto their Great Plains. I sat down to mutters of discontent.
Yellow Puma made it to his feet alone, but it was not easy for him. His recent decline was troubling. “It is my belief what has happened calls for no heavy decisions on our part,” he said in a voice that trembled at times. “We can suffer visits by these people if they are merely scouts to test the temper of the tribes. Our reaction to these incursions is meaningless beside that of our larger brothers of the Seven Council Fires. They will determine the fate of this country. Teacher’s advice is good. Cut Hand and Badger will visit their fires and determine their mood. Bear Paw and Lodge Pole will go to the Pipe Stem and speak with Great Bull. Teacher will remain and talk more on this matter to me. Is it agreed?”