Cut Hand

by Mark Wildyr

  “I cannot answer that. But Teacher’s Mead is my home, and the Yanube are my family. And Cut Hand is my friend. If they will allow me, I need to go to them.”

  “Billy.” He reverted to his original shy self. “I will resign my commission and come with you, if you will accept me.”

  “That would not be a good idea. You have a profession. There’s steel in you, James. It’s well covered by velvet, but it’s there. Enough, I think, for you to be good army material. But don’t go getting into trouble with some enlisted man. That would ruin your career and put you in prison. It would be like being back in school except worse.” I felt the shudder run through him.

  “I’m going to miss you. This has been the best four months of my life,” he cried. “Be rough with me, Billy. It will have to last a long time.”

  I did my best. I must have been at least partially successful, as he was unsteady on his feet when he left for his quarters on the post.

  Chapter 14

  I INVESTED the gains from my venture with Caleb Brown in the Yawktown gunsmith’s entire stock of percussion rifles and cartridges. I also bought a new dressing mirror and asked the glazier to throw enough blown glass lights for all the windows at Teacher’s Mead and several to spare.

  Although I delayed my start for the Mead late into the thaw, the going was rough. My wagon was a buckboard, and Long Wind did not take kindly to being hitched beside the sturdy black mare I purchased. He cast sullen looks over his shoulder designed to convey his humiliation at this change from proud Indian pony to draft horse. Patience, I urged. It would only be for a few days.

  The homestead had weathered well. Deep snowdrifts choked the north side of the building all the way to the hillock. A rangy dog approached, growling threateningly. It took a minute to recognize South. He had not only recovered from Morning Mist’s hatcheting; he also survived the winter. Slowly, the beast lowered his hackles and allowed me to approach. West snarled his disapproval from some distance, but he, too, eventually recognized me. East, a tough bitch trailing three scrawny pups, allowed herself to be cajoled. North did not show his muzzle, nor did I ever find sign of the carcass. Removing a few haunches of smoked meat from the cavern, I fed the half-starved canines. They were efficient hunters and had survived other winters, but this one had seemed long and difficult. I had no idea if that was an accurate read of the weather or a description of my emotional journey. Without puzzling over it further, I entered the house with some trepidation.

  A ghostly coat of gray dust shrouded the interior. A sheet of paper covered by Cut’s fine hand pinned to the inside of the door remained undisturbed until flames blazed in all the fireplaces and the horses were tended. I knew not if he had returned to the cabin after Otter handed over my letter or if the tiospaye had returned from winter quarters. Then I sat at the table with his epistle.

  Beloved. When I discovered your desertion, I was angry beyond all reason, and Morning Mist despaired of my sanity. Then I remembered my pledge that you were free to return to your people although you would rip my heart from my breast and take it with you. That you have done.

  If you are reading this, then welcome home! You have returned, and perhaps my heart can be restored to its proper place, and a friendship bound by love and respect can be revived and strengthened. Know this—Cut Hand loves you always, William Joseph Strobaw. Even so, I recognize the strength of your reasoning and accept that we are divorced. Knowing I can never cover you again is hurtful, but if that is the case, I will endure. We will endure. Love, Cut.

  I dropped my head to my arms on the planking of the table. How did I ever believe I could leave him? Whether or not there was a physical relationship, the object of my devotion was here, and here I belonged.

  I reread the letter, noting with pride the beauty of his composition. While most of the people in Yawktown could neither read nor write, this wild son of the plains penned a hand the envy of Moorehouse College. Upon examination, the writing seemed somewhat fresh, leading me to hope the People were back from winter quarters.

  This was affirmed when Otter sauntered through the door as though I had never left. He delivered the sad news of Yellow Puma’s passing during the winter, followed quickly by the death of the misco’s old friend, Spotted Hawk. Badger now served as shaman. The fate of the band was in the hands of a new generation of leaders.

  My young friend also brought the welcome news that Buffalo Shoulder’s shunning had been lifted, even though he still indulged alcohol more than was seemly. Otter laced the sour amongst the sweet. Cut Hand was now a proud father. Morning Mist laid a great belly and delivered a boy-child named Dog Fox. Damnation! Cut’s seed was powerful! He must have lined her on his first covering.

  Otter was coming fifteen now and looked the part. Gone was the baby fat from his lean frame. Fully as tall as I, his shoulders flared over ribs muscled with sinew and gristle. The light, genderless voice had broken, taking on an adolescent timbre. In actions, however, he was the old Otter, well named because of his playful ways and sudden bursts of energy. He spent the night with me, bedding down in the east side of the house while I crawled into what once was my marriage bed and the scene of countless beautiful couplings.

  Lone Eagle showed up the next day, and the change in him was startling. Just shy of eighteen, he looked to be two years older. His deep, vibrato voice and self-conscious swagger announced to the world “here walks a man.” Arrogance rode his shoulders more comfortably now, mellowed by confidence, smoothed of the brash, uncertain edges. He, too, acted as if there had been no interlude since our last meeting. They both spent the night.

  Cut Hand, Bear Paw, and Buffalo Shoulder appeared the next morning. All my jealousies fell away at the sight of Cut Hand’s magnificent bearing and physical beauty. Our handshake was long and endearing. Finally he stepped away and allowed the others to greet me with much pounding of backs and sly ribbings.

  Cut and I sat alone at the kitchen table before the fire while the others inspected my new rifles. He told me of Yellow Puma’s last days and how his father spoke of me with affection. Toward the end, the ailing man complimented his son on his wisdom in selecting Teacher as his first mate. Then we both sat without words, working through fresh sorrow for the loss of a father and a friend.

  His mother and Butterfly lived in a tipi beside Cut’s own as a part of his household. Bright Dove still mourned the loss of Yellow Puma but was managing to cope. Butterfly spurned Badger’s advances so long that the young man took another wife. He would still have her, but Cut feared she would never be a second wife to any man. So she languished, a juicy fruit working its way toward shriveling age. I almost laughed aloud. Butterfly was younger than my twenty and five years.

  Cut questioned me about life in the American settlement but would not ask what he wanted answered most. I volunteered the response.

  “My friend, I formed a liaison while I was away. I did not rest easy over it, because I was breaking a trust. But it happened.”

  “You broke no trust,” he answered solemnly. “We laid aside our vows. Was it the yellow-haired officer?” Surprised, I glanced up at him. “He had eyes only for you while he was here. Was he good for you?”

  “He allowed me to survive. I’m not certain I would have otherwise.”

  “You were a man for him,” he said with certainty. “That is good. Now you know the great joy I experienced when coupling with you.” Once again I looked at him for an explanation. “He was only strong enough to be your woman. But I am grateful he helped you survive.”

  “Not just survive. He gave me back my life.” Cut had no response to that. “Are you not disgusted that two win-tays lay together?”

  “Some men defy convention. You are one of them,” he answered.

  Choked by my emotions, I escaped the subject. “I understand you have a son. Are you sure you didn’t poke your pipe in Morning Mist when we had that fight? She puffed up awfully fast.”

  He smiled. “No, my friend. I held true until I took her
in marriage. But Cut Hand’s seed is strong. Did you not feel its power often enough?”

  “I sometimes thought I would conceive even without woman’s parts.”

  “I have a vow to request of you. Give it or not. The choice is yours. But if you accepted Carcajou, either to husband or to lie with, I would feel betrayed.”

  “You have my word,” I replied with a pang of regret.

  THE ENTIRE tiospaye extended a hearty welcome when I visited the next day. I paid my respects to Bright Dove and noticed how empty the lodge seemed without the commanding presence of Yellow Puma. Butterfly was lovely and wrapped in a new mantle of maturity the loss of a loved one sometimes bestowed.

  Morning Mist’s look of venomous triumph changed into false welcome when Cut came to the lodge opening. He gave me a bear hug and ordered food and drink to be brought. That did not sit well with the wife ascendant, but she served with all the grace of a Boston hostess. Her composure slipped when Cut initiated the conversation in English. A party of Nakota Sioux had marooned at this very place and moved on only reluctantly when Cut Hand informed them this was the site for their summer camp. One day, he sighed, there would be trouble with the Sioux.

  Cut decided he would be a chief who chose the peaceful way for as long as he was permitted to do so. I understood what he meant. When the Americans started coming, as they were said to be streaming to the Oregon country, then conflict would be inevitable. It irked to be able to see so plainly that a simple, healthy, peaceful life like this would one day no longer be possible. What I could not see was how the tribesmen would survive. I shivered, something that did not escape Cut’s notice. He must have understood, for he did not ask its cause.

  His most immediate worry was Butterfly. “She does not favor any of the young men,” he complained. “She is content to go with the other women as they do their daily chores.”

  “Some buck will come along to spark her interest. She grew up with these boys. It may require new blood like with her first husband. Has anyone new joined the band?”

  “They come and go. More than in the old days. That, too, is worrisome. How will I manage everything that is coming?”

  “Sunrise by sunrise,” I replied.

  I tarried with him, mostly to spite Morning Mist, but I could not in good conscience keep him longer, so I left for the Mead. Otter was hoeing the garden plot in preparation for planting when I turned Long’s nose into the yard before the house. Lone Eagle lounged on one of the porch chairs eating a jubal, a sort of sugar cake I sometimes baked.

  “Hah!” the latter said. “Look what I found.” He tossed a hand casually in Otter’s direction. “Is he your win-tay now?”

  Even after all these years, I reacted like the white man I was. “Don’t start those rumors, Lone Eagle, or you will never be welcome in my house again. I remember you doing woman’s work in this very place when you were not much younger than he is. Did that make you my win-tay?”

  “Of course not!” he objected, puzzled by my vehemence. “It was but a joke, Teacher. I meant nothing by it.”

  “And by such jokes are lives ruined. Don’t joke about it again.”

  He drew himself to full height. “A man says what he wants!”

  “Wipe the crumbs from your chin and stop acting like the back end of a horse,” I said in a snappish tone before going to join Otter in the garden. Surprisingly, Lone Eagle did not stomp off in righteous indignation but sat back down and finished the sweet bread.

  A few days later, a lanky youngster visited the Mead, announcing himself gravely as Long Toes. As he handed over the gift of a small parfleche, I noticed he carried a flute, the sure sign of a smitten tribesman. My first swain had come to vie for what once belonged to his leader. I almost laughed aloud. He could not have been more than seventeen. Before I could react, Lone Eagle strode through the doorway.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I-I came to see Teacher.”

  “Get out of here!” Lone Eagle thundered. Embarrassed, the young man forgot to protest the challenge to his pride and fled. “I didn’t think he had the stones,” my self-appointed protector muttered. “He’s been bragging he was going to lie with you.”

  “Lie with me? What was his name again? Long Toes? Does that apply to his pipe as well?”

  Rather than join in the teasing, Lone Eagle was scandalized. He seemed to get that way around me quite a bit. “Don’t talk like that! He’s just a child.”

  “About your age, isn’t he?”

  I did not see Lone Eagle again for several days.

  Life settled as near to normal as possible absent Cut’s physical love. On occasion I caught a look of longing on his face and was tempted toward carnal relations, but I recalled the near destruction of this fine man as he was whipsawed back and forth between Morning Mist and me. I loved him too much to subject him to that again.

  Late in the spring, I was pulled to the door by the din my dogs raised. Two of East’s pups survived. One I named North and trained him to his namesake’s duties. The other was dubbed House and made a guardian of the immediate premises of the homestead. In truth, he spent a lot of his time inside the house slobbering on anyone who would give him a friendly scratch behind the ears.

  I called off my guardians as two platoons of dragoons rode into my meadow. Otter joined me on the stoop. Captain Jamieson strode up to shake hands by way of greeting. Lieutenant Morrow dismounted the troop before joining us.

  “Mr. Strobaw, a pleasure seeing you again, sir,” the captain said. “If you will allow the use of your creek to water the men, I believe they are seasoned enough to drink upstream of the horses.”

  Smiling at his joke, I nodded permission. Lieutenant Morrow bawled an order, impressing me with his command voice.

  “We’re out feeling the pulse,” the captain replied in answer to my question. “I’m taking one platoon north to call on the Sioux. Lieutenant Morrow is visiting the Pipe Stem after we parley with the Yanube. I understand Cut Hand leads that band now.”

  “Yes, sir, he does. A word of caution, Captain. You’re going to find some strange faces among the Sioux. There have been groups moving through this country from the east, putting pressure on the tribes here.”

  “I see. And the Pipe Stem?”

  “They are led by Carcajou. He will be wary and suspicious, but he will listen to what you say if you can find an interpreter.”

  “Splendid. Now, if you would be so kind as to send your Ganymede to summon the chief of the Yanube, we can parley under the cover of your stoop.”

  “Otter is not my Ganymede,” I said more sharply than intended. “He is a free warrior of the Yanube and understands every word you say.”

  Jamieson nodded to the tall youngster. “My apologies.”

  “As for sending for Cut Hand, no, I will not. I would not presume to summon the chief of this band. My advice is the same as the last time. Send a trooper under flag and request an invitation to the camp. Otter will accompany him, if you wish.”

  AN HOUR later we passed the pipe around the council blanket before Cut Hand’s lodge. Even after all these years, my system was no more accepting of tobacco. I always experienced a moment of giddiness after drawing on the calumet.

  Jamieson nodded toward the red stone pipe when it came to rest in Cut’s lap. “Impressive piece of work.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Like most things, it is symbolic to these people. The stem is male. The bowl, female. There is a healthy trade in this red stone, which comes from the east. This medicine pipe represents one of the tiospaye’s treasures.”

  The captain addressed his mission, reinforcing the army’s wish for friendship and warning we would see more patrols. Cut Hand translated the English words into his own language and then turned back to the officers, his glance lingering on the lieutenant for a moment. He accepted the captain’s words as true and said that like his father, he was a peace chief.

  The flowery fluff out of the way, Cut bore down with h
ard questions. Why were the Nakota-speakers being driven west? Why were there fewer buffalo? Was it true an American settlement was going up on the Yanube halfway between Fort Ramson and Fort Yanube? Would the American army’s friendship translate into better weapons for their friends? I believe Jamieson was truthful insofar as his authority extended, but he gave the Yanube scant comfort.

  It was late before the confab broke up, and the officers gratefully accepted my invitation to house at the Mead for the night. The troops pitched tents and bedrolls in the meadow before the cabin while the officers appropriated the bunks in the west fronting room. Both expressed gratitude at the offer of my bath. Lieutenant Morrow went about his libations while his captain and I sat at my table to discuss news from the east.

  Old Hickory’s term was ending, and Jamieson believed the vice president, Martin Van Buren, would succeed him. The next item explained his mission better than anything else. On March 2 in this year of 1836, the Texicans declared themselves independent. On March 6, the Mexican army overran a fortified mission called the Alamo at San Antonio de Bexar. Some famous names died there, Crockett and Bowie among them. If the United States was dragged into a war with Mexico, the military would be hard-pressed to field troops in the North Country. This and the continuing squabbles over black slavery were telling on the Americans.

  James emerged from the bath clothed in his trousers and little else. When Captain Jamieson disappeared to take his own shower, James was standing before my new mirror combing his hair. He smiled as I moved up behind him to lean my groin into his buttocks. He shuddered in excitement at my touch. When the sound of water trickling from the shower stopped, I moved away.

  AS THE army left my meadow the next morning, Otter materialized in a state of mild agitation.

  “Don’t you like them?” I teased.

  “Some are all right, but I don’t like the ones with stripes. They tried to get me to go find them women. When I wouldn’t, they wanted me to service them. They got angry when I refused. So I went back to the village last night. I am sorry I left you alone with them.”