Long Elk and Standing Bird, ranging to the west by two days’ journey, first observed the Head Splitters. At least fifty mounted warriors, well armed, traveling eastward with their wolves well deployed. This was no hunting party. Long Elk stayed to observe their progress, while Standing Bird hurried to report the approach of the enemy.
It must be assumed that the Head Splitters knew their location, so it also followed that the camp might be under observation. A carefully contrived charade was carried out to make everything appear normal. Women scraped skins and chattered to each other at their work. Men lounged against their backrests and visited, and children played happily among the lodges. To the enemy they must appear totally unsuspecting.
The horse herd had been carefully divided. Mares, foals, and immature animals were herded into the meadow behind the lodges, openly watched over by youths too young for combat. The best of the hunting horses, meanwhile, were kept hidden in the heavy timber along the creek, each under the care of its owner. White Buffalo’s vision promised success in the venture.
Part of the strategy involved enticing the enemy to attack at the proper moment. A decoy hunting party set out next morning in an innocent manner. Four young men, mounted on the fastest and most surefooted of horses, set out casually, wandering as if looking for game. They were sure to be observed and avoided any opportunity for surprise or ambush by using the terrain. Finally, at the proper location, they showed themselves at the top of the hill, and pretended panic at the discovery of the enemy.
They turned and urged their horses in frantic escape. The Head Splitters, scenting blood, raced in hot pursuit. The four youths pounded across the valley, down the long strip of meadow, and in among the lodges, screaming the warning.
Behind them came the rolling thunder of dozens of hooves. Women screamed, children scurried, and there was a general exodus from the village as the People fled in panic before the charge. Echoing down the valley and reechoing from the rocky hillside, came the chilling war cry of the Head Splitters.
46
To the charging Head Splitters, this must have seemed an ideal raid. To be able to pursue four terrified youths directly into the unprotected camp of the enemy was beyond all expectations. People were screaming and running frantically away from the attack, toward the timber beyond the horse meadow.
White Buffalo and Crow ran with them, but stopped in a rocky outcrop and settled down to watch. Nervously, the holy man began to chant, while his wife beat the cadence on the drum.
The first of the riders had almost reached the nearest of the lodges when the unexpected happened. From behind and within the front row of scattered lodges, suddenly appeared well-armed warriors. The seasoned bowmen of the band, led by Hump Ribs himself, loosed a flight of arrows at almost point-blank range. The effect was devastating. Several riders were swept from their mounts, and horses in the front ranks went down before the withering fire. The charge faltered, then reformed for another approach, just in time to be met with another barrage of arrows. Casualties were heavy again.
The horsemen milled in confusion, attempting to reorganize under the shouted commands of their chief. Just at that moment came a long yell from the timber. Dozens of young warriors of the Elk-dog Society poured out of the trees with lances ready, cutting off the avenue of retreat. A few of the Head Splitters fled in panic into the broken rocks of the hillside. Others turned to meet the new attack, and in the space of a few heartbeats, the two groups of horsemen were mixed in a dusty, bloody melee.
The Head Splitters were traditionally fierce fighters, skilled in the use of weapons. In addition, they were fighting for survival, trapped between the foot soldiers of Hump Ribs and the mounted lancers of Heads Off. There was no retreat, and the invading force fought with the ferocity of a trapped cougar at bay.
The men of the People, although backed by a tradition of defensive combat only, had readied for this day. The pent-up resentment of years, perhaps centuries of abuse by the Head Splitters was reaching its climax today. Lances found human torsos as vulnerable as the rib cages of buffalo, and warriors tumbled into the dust.
Heads Off kneed his mare through the milling, fighting crowd, searching for the Head Splitter chief. He made a run with the lance at a youth scarcely older than Long Elk. The young warrior initially made a firm stand, readying his shield and club. At the last moment, his resolve faltered, and he threw himself backward from his horse to avoid the lance thrust. Heads Off swept past, unable to stop his charge, and as he glanced down, saw the young Head Splitter’s face contort in agony. His own horse, stepping backward to avoid the impact, had crushed the boy’s chest.
Heads Off dodged the swing of a club and thrust out in answer with his lance. The point drew blood, but he knew that it was only a flesh wound. The next moment the tide of battle had swept the two apart, and he lost sight of his adversary in the dust and confusion.
Still, he must find and challenge the Head Splitter chief, Gray Wolf. The other would be looking for him also. The reports of personal revenge had continued. Now was the time to resolve this conflict once and for all.
Across the meadow, White Buffalo saw two of the elk-dog soldiers charge at a tall, burly Head Splitter on one of the largest horses he had ever seen. The two made an excellent run. One or the other would certainly strike home. To his amazement, the Head Splitter was as quick as he was large. He parried the lance of one attacker with his rawhide shield and almost simultaneously swung his war club at the other lancer. The club was longer and heavier than most, and even the glancing blow to the shoulder bowled the young rider from his horse. The youth rolled, regained his feet, and ran, his left arm hanging useless as he dodged the pursuing Head Splitter.
Heads Off reined his horse around and kneed her in that direction. The boys were clearly outclassed by a veteran combatant. As he moved closer, the young man gained the shelter of the broken rimrock. The pursuer abandoned the chase and reined his huge bay around to rejoin the battle. As he turned, the symbol on his painted shield became visible to Heads Off for the first time. A geometrically styled design of an animal, with erect ears and a drooping tail—a wolf! This must be Gray Wolf, the mighty warrior, real-chief of the Head Splitters.
At almost the same instant, the other seemed to recognize his sworn enemy. He roared a challenging war cry that was more of a bellow and kneed the bay forward in a charge. The heavy war club whistled in a deadly circle as the two horses approached each other at full speed. Heads Off directed the lance point at the soft midriff just below the ribs and confidently braced himself for the shock of contact.
To White Buffalo’s complete surprise, at the last instant the other swung his shield into position. The parried lance-thrust slid on past, and the shoulder of the larger horse crashed into the gray mare’s. The little mare rolled, but her rider had kicked free and managed to get out of her way. He was dazed and somewhat disoriented as he floundered around in the dust, trying to avoid the finishing blow that must be coming.
Momentum had carried the Head Splitter’s horse beyond the fallen Heads Off, and now they whirled for another run. Heads Off was on hands and knees in the dust. The whirling war club began to gain momentum in circles designed to finish the fight at the end of the charge. Dimly through the dusty haze, White Buffalo saw the big horse thundering down and saw the deadly swinging club.
The next action of Heads Off was more instinct than reason. He dove directly under the front feet of the galloping bay. His reasoning, if he had any at all, was simply to put something between himself and the deadly club. The Head Splitter would be unable to strike directly beneath his own horse. The horse unwittingly assisted too. A horse instinctively jumps to avoid obstacles under its feet, and the big bay tucked up his forefeet neatly and cleared the rolling body. Momentum carried the charge beyond, while Heads Off floundered around looking for his weapon.
White Buffalo gasped as the pounding hooves thundered down on the unhorsed Heads Off, who was at a definite disadvantage. He was on
foot. The other’s mobility and the length of the club made the lance less effective. He could throw the weapon, but if he missed, he would be unarmed.
The great horse approached, the rider swinging his ax. Then, to White Buffalo’s astonishment, Heads Off leaped aside and turned to thrust his lance deep into the soft flank of the elk-dog instantly the holy man understood. Now they must fight on foot.
The bay screamed and reared, nearly falling backward, then bucking convulsively until it fell headlong. Heads Off was already running forward. The impact had torn the lance from his grasp, and he snatched the knife from his belt. Gray Wolf was rising from his knees when Heads Off dived headlong over the dying horse to prevent his finding the war club.
The two rolled in the dirt—kicking, biting, gouging. Gray Wolf kneed at the other’s groin, grasped his knife wrist, and rolled on top, striving to turn the blade toward its owner.
In desperation, Heads Off swung a long sweeping blow with his left fist. It collided with Gray Wolf’s ear, startling and confusing him. The use of fists in combat was entirely unfamiliar to the Head Splitter. Heads Off struck again, and the grip loosened on his wrist. Another blow and he wrenched the knife free and thrust upward with all his strength in a last desperate effort of survival. The point entered the other’s throat between the jawbones and sank deep. Blood spurted over Heads Off’s face, as the massive weight of the warrior’s body sank heavily on his chest. He lay his head back, unable to move.
The sounds of battle were farther away now. Someone pulled the dead Head Splitter’s body away, and Heads Off rolled over and filled his lungs. Weakly he crawled over and sat on the dead horse, still breathing heavily.
The Head Splitters were on the run, leaving their dead behind them. A number of warriors of the People rode in hot pursuit or loosed arrows after the fleeing remnants of the attacking force.
Coyote came over, leading Heads Off’s gray mare. He handed Heads Off a heavy, blood-spattered club.
“Here, Heads Off. You will want to keep this.”
Heads Off looked at the dead chief and shook his head, still unable to speak.
“No matter, I will keep it for you. You may want it later.”
Coyote stood quietly, his presence comforting. A loose horse clopped past, reins trailing, nickering in bewilderment. Women were returning from the timber, looking for loved ones. Here and there a sudden cry, a wail of grief, and the rising notes of the Mourning Song.
The heaviest fighting had been in the meadow, where the horsemen had clashed, and the heaviest casualties were there. The wounded were being assisted by their friends and relatives.
Tall One glided gracefully through the carnage and embraced Heads Off.
“I am proud, my husband.”
“I want to go home,” he gasped. “To lie down.”
They moved in that direction.
Near the first of the lodges, a cluster of people, both men and women, crowded together in a knot. There was a sense of urgency, of extra tragedy, in the keening wails arising from this group. Some simply stood, numbly staring. Attracted by the dread fascination of the unknown, Heads Off motioned, and the three altered their course. They elbowed their way into the crowd toward the motionless figure in the center of the circle. White Buffalo, too, hurried over.
The dead warrior was Hump Ribs. The People of the Southern band were without a leader.
47
In the aftermath of the Great Battle, a feeling a numbness settled over the Southern band, like the heavy pall of a gray cloudbank. There was mourning and the duties attendant upon those who cared for the dead. The People went about their daily tasks of living like sleepwalkers, numb from all the death and destruction. The weather was warm, and very quickly the stench of rotting horseflesh became overbearing. The level meadow along the stream was no longer pleasant, but a place of death. There were still bodies of Head Splitters rotting among those of their elk-dogs. It was time to move.
It would have been time anyway, because the gathering of the People for the Sun Dance and Big Council was imminent. The travel time would be no more than sufficient to reach the appointed place. But, there was no one to say the day, to announce that now or three days from now we will move. There was no leader. Despite this, the need to move quickly became apparent, and the People seemed to move by instinct. The packing, preparation, and striking of the lodges happened. One family began to take down its lodge, and someone else, seeing it, followed suit. A great deal of organization was not needed. The purpose and direction were plain. It remained only to do it, and the People did.
They straggled out of the campsite, still numb, bedraggled, and mourning. Behind them, the trees along the river held burial scaffolds, stark against the sky. They were easily visible, even at last view, amid the budding twigs of new spring growth. Death gives way to new life, thought White Buffalo. He stood a moment, looking back, thinking that the scene looked very much like a heron rookery, with its dozens, sometimes hundreds, of heron lodges. Scaffolds of sticks, built by the herons to hold new life, as these scaffolds held death. He sighed and turned to follow the procession, wending its way to join the rest of the People. The Southern band was confused. They had won a great victory over the traditional enemy. Yet there was still death and mourning, destroying the taste of that victory.
Coyote waited beside the trail and fell in beside White Buffalo. The two walked in silence for a time, and it was Coyote who finally spoke.
“The People need a leader.”
Yes, thought White Buffalo. A leader. Someone to inspire, to point a direction. Just now, the People were floundering. They were moving toward the Sun Dance because there was nothing else that was solid and lasting. They would seek that celebration because its time and place had already been set. But beyond that, the future was indefinite. There should be a council within the band to select a new chief. None had been called in the numb confusion that had followed the battle. Why? White Buffalo wondered for a moment. Who should have called such a council? The Southern band had enjoyed good leadership for many summers, but now, who?
Mouse Roars had been a leader and teacher, respected and followed by the young men. But Mouse Roars was dead. His son Standing Bird had shown leadership talents but was still too young. Two Pines? No, he still bore the stigma of having changed loyalties when he left the Red Rocks. Sees Far? His skills lay in other directions, as a scout and tracker.
White Buffalo himself could, and probably should, call a council to make the selection. He had been avoiding it, he decided, because he saw no clear candidate for leadership. Aiee, nothing was ever simple, even in victory. He studied Coyote as they walked along. Why had the little man brought up the subject? He thought about Coyote’s ways, how Coyote had no desire to lead but managed to manipulate situations without seeming to do so.
“Yes, we should call a council,” White Buffalo said tentatively.
“A good thought,” Coyote answered and walked on in silence.
Ah, the holy man thought, I am right. He does have an idea.
“Who will they select?” White Buffalo wondered aloud.
“Who knows?” Coyote shrugged. “Who is a leader?”
“Two Pines is well thought of,” ventured the holy man.
“Yes, that is true. But will the young men follow an outsider?” Coyote asked.
“My thoughts also. Aiee, we need someone like Mouse Roars.”
“Or Hump Ribs,” said Coyote. “That is the problem.”
“Coyote, who do the young men follow?”
The little man giggled.
“Heads Off, of course.”
“No, I mean…”
Suddenly, Coyote’s purpose became clear. White Buffalo had been racking his brain to think of a leader but had found none. He had been thinking, however, of the traditional warrior-hunter, the bowman, fighting on foot and teaching others to do so. The interests of the young men did not lie in that direction but in the skills of the elk-dog. They were following the one who co
uld teach those skills, those of the elk-dog medicine. The idea of two warrior societies came back again. It was a fact of life now. What was more, the Elk-dog Society was assuming the stronger position.
And that, the holy man now realized at last, was the basis of the present problem. There was no clear leader emerging because he would be expected to come from the old traditional warrior-hunter society, now called the Bowstrings. There was no leader there, because the young men were following the call of the elk-dog and of another leader.
White Buffalo doubted that Heads Off was even aware of the political implications here. There would probably be young men who would choose the more traditional ways, but just now… aiee, the chief must be an elk-dog leader, and there was none except… It was unthinkable, the thing that kept repeatedly intruding itself into his mind. If Two Pines was unacceptable because of changed loyalty, then how could a complete outsider hope to lead? The answer came back to him: Heads Off leads because of his special medicine, which Two Pines does not have. Which no one else has.
White Buffalo stopped in his tracks and stared at Coyote in amazement.
“Heads Off?”
Coyote giggled nervously.
“Why not, Uncle? The young men follow him already. They followed him into battle. He is respected by the elders, even though they do not understand him.”
“But, he… I… Coyote, this is not done.”
“It has not been, Uncle,” said Coyote almost gently, “because until now there has been no elk-dog medicine. But there is change in the wind.”
Yes, change, thought the holy man. Once again, he wondered if he was ready. But he must. It was not possible to go back.
“Would he do this, Coyote?”
Coyote shrugged.
“Who knows? Let us ask him.”
It was late in the day before they contrived to walk with Heads Off while he led his horse for a little while. White Buffalo, after some small talk, came straight to the point.
The Changing Wind Page 29