The visiting Head Splitters stopped just outside the far perimeter of the village, and prepared to make camp. Several of the chiefs walked back into the jumble of mud lodges. Owl supposed they would pay their respects to the chief of the Mud Lodge people.
As darkness gathered, he watched the people of the strange tribe move among the lodges. The weather was mild, and much of the cooking seemed to be done outside. He was especially startled to see a woman busily tending a fire in a small conical lodge of mud, no taller than her head. Eventually she reached in with a long stick and brought out large lumps of some hot substance which must be food. The strange smell was pleasant to his nostrils.
Owl wondered if the People would believe his tales when he returned home. A tribe which built square lodges and climbed in and out through the smoke-hole on poles tied together! The cooking of strange foods in a special fire-lodge. His chances of being able to tell of these wondrous things looked pretty slim at the moment.
Full darkness had now fallen, and the people of his captors’ tribe drew nearer their fires against the night’s chill. Owl could see some of the Mud Lodge people climbing to the tops of their lodges to disappear inside. The delegation from the Head Splitters’ camp returned, the men going separate ways to their own families.
Bull’s Tail strode over, beckoned to Owl, and drew him aside. He began to speak in the Head Splitter tongue, augmented by the sign language.
“I have exchanged you to this tribe. You have been nothing but trouble since you were captured. Many Wives will kill you if he is able.” He paused and gave a long sigh. “I had hoped to keep you, for the honor of holding a chief’s son, but—” he spread his hands in a shrug.
Owl was startled at the lengthy speech by his captor, and by his use of the Head Splitters’ tongue. He must have known all along that his prisoner was gaining knowledge of the language.
Bull’s Tail tied the hands of the captive in front of him, and led him among the mud lodges. Slowly, the enormity of this turn of events sank into Owl’s mind. He was resentful and indignant, and felt betrayed by a man he had respected. Owl wondered wryly if Bull’s Tail considered that he had brought a good price.
They reached a spot beside one of the dwellings, where two men of the Mud Lodge people waited, and they motioned him to climb. One of the men followed him up to the top of the structure, where another waited. Here they motioned to a smoke-stained hole and pushed him in that direction. Owl, remembering that cooperation had earned better treatment, moved over and started to climb down the ladder. One of the men stopped him long enough to untie his hands, and again motioned to the interior.
Owl descended into the warm, foul-smelling structure, coughing a little from the smoke. A small fire burned in the center of the lodge, and he could see the dark shapes of several men and boys around the edge of the darkness. Someone above pulled the ladder up and out of the smoke-hole. To Owl, accustomed to the wide skies and open horizons of the prairie, this was the most fearful of all sensations, that of entrapment. Never, in all the coming moons, did he entirely overcome this panicky feeling in one of these lodges when the pole-ladder was removed and the exit became inaccessible.
He glanced around the lodge, at the several faces reflecting light of the tiny fire. The thing he saw in each pair of eyes was disconcerting. Each was a replica of the last, revealing one thought. Hopelessness.
By the variety of the tattered garments that they wore, and the difference in the appearance of their hair, Owl judged that they represented several different tribes. He must attempt communication.
“Who are you?” he signed to the group at large. Only stares in answer. His inquiring glance touched each of the handful of faces in the lodge.
“Do you understand the signs?”
Surely, any tribe Owl had ever heard of could communicate with the universal hand signs. There was no change in the fixed expressions of despair.
“Are we all prisoners here?”
A man coughed, behind him in the corner. Owl turned to look. The tired old man chuckled without mirth, and began to sign.
“Of course we are prisoners, Stupid One!”
Owl did not answer, but sought an unoccupied place next to the wall and sat down. He wondered if it would be possible to create enough spirit in these men to attempt escape.
No matter, he thought. If they will not, at least I will.
9
Once a day a container of food was lowered, and the prisoners squabbled over the best positions around the vessel. There was little variety. Stewed corn or beans or a combination of the two. Sometimes only a mushy whitish substance which Owl identified as made of ground corn. How he longed for the rich, juicy flavor of hump ribs after a successful buffalo hunt. He would dream at night of feasting on good red meat until his belly hurt. Then he would awake, his belly actually hurting, but from hunger pangs. He wondered how long a person could live without meat, the staple of the People’s diet.
Perhaps even worse was the inactivity. The most stimulating event of the day, aside from the arrival of food, was the spot of light from Sun Boy’s torch. It started high on the wall, crawled downward and across the floor, then up the opposite wall before narrowing into nothing just before the time of darkness began.
Owl felt himself growing weaker from inactivity, and started to pace the confines of the lodge to remain strong. He must be able to escape when the time came. The other prisoners seemed to resent these efforts on his part, grudgingly moving aside for his pacing.
At first none would communicate at all. Finally the old man, who had first answered the hand signs, condescended to at least acknowledge Owl’s queries. This, however, was not much better than nothing. He soon realized that the man was deranged. The evil spirit in him would sometimes make him giggle senselessly, though at other times he seemed almost rational.
It was during one of the more sensible periods that Owl managed to communicate at some length with him. The Old Man, as Owl thought of him, was apparently not so old, though his hair was white. He had no idea how long he had been a prisoner. Had he ever tried escape? Of course, at first.
Owl could not understand the man’s attempts to tell him his tribe. It was one unfamiliar to the People.
Owl was puzzled. Surely the man’s entire captivity had not been spent in this lodge. Efforts for further information on this point were fruitless, answered only by a vague hand gesture toward the southwest. Another puzzling circumstance bothered him even more. For what purpose would one hold another person in captivity? He attempted to question the Old Man.
“What will be done with us next?” he signed.
“They will sell us,” came the quick answer, “to the Hairfaces.”
A look of apprehension crept over the sallow face, and the man began to jabber quietly. The spirit was bothering him again, Owl saw, and ceased his questioning. The other wandered over against the wall, sank to a recumbent position, and curled up like a child, whimpering softly to himself.
Owl was touched by the pitiable sight, but also had much to think about. “The Hairfaces!” What could be meant by that? The only man he had ever seen with fur upon his face was his father. Could it be possible that the people of whom the Old Man spoke with such dread were the tribe of Owl’s father? If so, he would undoubtedly be welcomed when he identified himself. He settled back against his own section of the wall, almost elated. This could be the solution to all his problems, to find his father’s people.
Still, gnawing at the back of his mind, was the memory of the Old Man’s inordinate dread of these people. And what, he wondered uneasily, had turned his hair prematurely white?
Owl’s natural optimism won out, and he decided that his own case was considerably different from that of the Old Man. Adding to his anticipation was another sign of good medicine. As the twilight deepened, he heard a coyote’s call from the far hilltop.
By the time of the arrival of the Hairfaces, Owl had managed to convince himself that this was to be an event
of extreme good fortune. It was with actual anticipation that he climbed the ladder with the other prisoners and stood blinking in the unfamiliar sunlight.
A glance toward the camp site near the creek showed him that the Head Splitters had long since departed. He felt a pang of loneliness. The tribe of his captors had been the last vestige of contact with his own people of the plains.
The slight twinge of regret was immediately overshadowed by interest in that which was new. Below him in the path between the lodges were several men on horses, moving at a leisurely pace toward the center of the village.
The man who appeared to be their leader sat on a magnificent black stallion. He wore strange bright-colored garments and headgear, and a medicine shirt that Owl suddenly realized was exactly like one he had seen before. Over his parent’s sleeping robes in the lodge far away hung an unused chain-mail shirt. Owl had grown up knowing only that it represented a part of his father’s past heritage. It was considered strong medicine among the People, but Owl had never seen it worn.
The man on the black stallion rode past the lodge, and Owl, looking down directly on him, saw that this shirt was indeed like his father’s. The slender curling strands shone glittering in the sunlight, and dull metallic sounds emanated from the rider as he moved.
With a thrill of excitement, Owl saw that the men on horses, and many of those on the ground, did indeed have fur upon their faces. One man, riding directly behind the leader, glanced up, and the astonished Owl saw that he greatly resembled his father. Certainly closely enough to have been a relative. Perhaps, Owl pondered, the Hairface could even be my uncle! He could hardly wait for the coming confrontation.
How could he contrive to present the most impressive scene? His mind raced ahead. He remembered well the techniques of White Buffalo, and how the old medicine man could milk the last drop of drama out of a situation.
Owl had only a moment to plan his scene, however, The last of the procession passed below, and their captors motioned the prisoners to descend the ladder to the ground. They were shoved roughly forward in the direction the Hairfaces had taken.
The horsemen had dismounted and were facing an open area, awaiting the approaching file of prisoners. The captives were led forward, and by sign language, one of the Mud Lodge people indicated that they were to kneel. The men on either side dropped woodenly to their knees. Now, thought Owl, now is the time. He drew himself to the full height of his young manhood, and addressed the leader of the group, using hand signs.
“I am Owl,” he began, “son of Heads Off, chief of the Elk-dog band of the People. My father is a Hairface, of your tribe! I am of your people!”
All eyes were on him, astonished at his revelation. Owl stood, smiling and expectant, waiting for the welcoming answer from the Hairface leader. He was still smiling when the whip struck across his bare shoulders, each of the metal-tipped lashes raking a thin strip of skin. Owl screamed, and dropped writhing to the ground, still crying out in pain. The Hairface leader smiled thinly.
Three more times the whip hissed through the air, the burning cut of the multiple lashes searching, wrapping, stripping skin. Finally the punishment stopped, and there was silence for a moment, broken only by the delirious giggle of the demented Old Man.
A couple of the Hairfaces moved among the prisoners, tying them together by means of a rope knotted around each left ankle. Their leader stalked over to his horse and stepped nimbly up. He reined the animal around, then turned and spoke to the man with the whip.
“Bring them along,” he said casually. He pointed with his quirt at the prostrate figure on the ground. “If the half-breed bastard makes trouble, give him another taste of the cat!”
The tongue of the Hairfaces was completely foreign to Owl, but the meaning was clear. He glanced over at the man with the whip, intending to remember his appearance for future use. The stern glare he encountered made him drop his eyes again as he painfully rose with the others and shuffled after the riders.
So these were men of his father’s tribe. No wonder he had left them to join the People.
10
During his previous captivity, Owl had attempted to adjust to the circumstances. Now his predicament was not to adjust, but to survive. Any slight deviation from the expected brought an instant shouted curse and a stroke of the whip.
This instrument was several paces in length, and it became apparent that it could be used with great accuracy. For some reason which was obscure at first, it was called “el gato” in the language of the Hairfaces. It was learned that this phrase meant “the cat,” and the meaning became more apparent. A prisoner subjected to a stroke of the whip would exhibit a series of deep parallel cuts in the skin which resembled the claw marks of a giant cat.
It did not take Owl long to recognize the origin of the odd crisscross scars on the back of the Old Man.
The overseers ordinarily carried the whip coiled in the right hand, looking for all the world like a braided rope or a great black snake. It was easy to glance at the coils and wonder how many hapless prisoners had contributed the color of their blood to the greasy hue of the device. The butt of the whip, nearly as thick as one’s wrist, was held by a thong looped around the forearm of the overseer.
There were several of these men, charged with management of the prisoners. One stood out above all others, however, for his sadism. It was he who had initiated Owl to the bite of el gato in the courtyard back in the village of the Mud Lodge people. At any pretext he sent the burning lash searching for tender skin with a vengeance. At times it seemed as though the man was actually disappointed if there were no infractions. The other overseers were content if the prisoners were quiet and cooperative, but this one wielder of the dreaded cat was constantly restless. It was thought that his pleasure in its application was so intense that he occasionally applied an unjustified blow just to pass the time.
He was of scarcely more than medium height, but very broad and muscular in the shoulders. His muscles were overdeveloped from wielding the cat, it was said. Perhaps this was true, for his lower body and legs were disproportionately slender. It was as if the man had been assembled from parts of two differently shaped individuals. His neck was short and thick, allowing his head to rest, it appeared, directly on his heavy shoulders. A fringe of beard straggled around the periphery of his face, framing a perpetual look of evil ill-temper. The small, close-set eyes wandered constantly, looking for the slightest excuse to unleash the cat. In no time at all the prisoners had applied to the man himself the name of his favorite instrument. He was El Gato.
He seemed to take special delight in watching for any infractions on the part of Owl. It became a one-sided game, with all the rules favoring the man with the whip. Owl was unsure why he had been singled out for special attention. He realized, however, it must have been because of his outburst back in the village. How utterly stupid of him, he now reflected. He had actually expected the Hairfaces to welcome him into the hospitality of their tribe. Yes, it had been a serious mistake to draw attention to himself. Now, it was apparent that the primary objective of every prisoner should be not to catch the attention of the overseer. It was much better to become only one more of the faceless, dull entities, part of the sameness that was the mark of the captives.
There were perhaps as many prisoners as there are days in a moon. Owl was still puzzled as to why the Hairfaces kept this group of captives huddled in subjugation. They eagerly looked forward to one bright spot in the day, the distribution of the poor-quality food. Occasionally the guards would come into the mud-walled enclosure and single out a handful of the captives for some menial task, such as carrying sacks of grain or logs of firewood.
Downtrodden and low in spirit as he was, Owl still had one faculty over which he had very little control. His strict training under the medicine man had so deeply ingrained the habit of observation that he gathered information without consciously doing so. In this way he gained much knowledge of the Hairfaces on the infrequent occasions w
hen he was among those chosen for the work party.
There were several things about his captors which Owl found almost beyond belief. He had already noticed, on the punishing march from the mud-hut village, that they made extensive use of the shiny medicine material. His father had a small knife of this sort, in contrast to the flint blades and spear points made by old Stone Breaker of the People. His father’s elk-dog medicine, in fact, the jingling thing that enabled control of the horse, was formed of the shiny stuff. Now, he saw that the material was used by the Hairfaces for many things. All of their elk-dogs wore the medicine objects in their mouths. Several of the men had medicine shirts like that of his father, formed of tiny links of the substance. Some of their chiefs carried long, shiny knives, as long as one’s arm, which again, he thought, must be similarly made. Aiee, with so much strong medicine, the Hairfaces must be undefeatable.
He became certain of this a few days later. A ceremony was held at which a demonstration of the powerful medicine of the Hairfaces was carried out. The prisoners were allowed to watch.
A group of men dressed alike, and with the demeanor of warriors brought forth a strange object from one of the lodges. It was pulled on wheels, like those of the carts used to carry firewood and grain. Owl had become used to the wheels, another wondrous evidence of the medicine of the Hairfaces. He had wondered how to attempt to describe these marvels to the People on his return.
Now, the warriors were dragging the heavy object on a two-wheeled cart. It appeared to resemble a section of hollow log about two paces long, except that it was made of the shiny substance that the Hairfaces used for so many of their medicine things.
The men dragged the thing into position and turned it so that the log pointed away from the lodges. With great ceremony a quantity of black sand was poured into the log, followed by what appeared to be a piece of a grain sack. This was pushed down the log with a pole, and a round boulder selected from a nearby pile. This was found to exactly fit the hole in the log. It, too, was pushed in with the pole.
Buffalo Medicine Page 5