ABACUS

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ABACUS Page 10

by Chris McGowan


  “What’s wrong?” she gasped.

  “I saw over a dozen warriors. Heavily armed.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Just keep going,” he said with a grin. “They’re still busy chasing buffalo!”

  “Arthur Percival!” she said, grabbing his collar. “I could STRANGLE YOU!”

  They started walking, enjoying the sights and sounds of the river again. One unexpected occurrence was a flock of white pelicans, flying overhead. “I thought they were seabirds,” said AP, chewing on a stalk of grass.

  The babbling of the river was gently soothing. A brilliant gold butterfly flitted into view and landed on Kate’s shoulder.

  “That’s a good omen,” said an unfamiliar voice from above.

  Glancing up, they saw an old man sitting comfortably on an overhanging bough. He wore a knee-length deerskin shirt fringed with tassels. His tight-fitting leggings were a darker shade of tan, as were his moccasins. The weather-beaten face was lined with age, the wrinkles revealing a man accustomed to smiling. His black hair was braided into two waist-length pigtails.

  He seemed friendly and AP thought it only polite to reply.

  “I didn’t know that—about butterflies,” he began awkwardly. “We’re not from here.”

  “Where are you from?” There was nothing intimidating in his question.

  “We’re from the east,” explained AP, pointing in that direction.

  The old man smiled and nodded. Then, glancing down at Kate, he asked, “Is she your woman?”

  “Who, Kate?” blurted AP, surprised at the question. “No! She’s my sister.”

  “Huh,” the man grunted, throwing back his head. “She’s dressed wrong.”

  Then, turning back to AP, “And your clothes are not those of a young blood.” There was no hint of suspicion—he was simply curious. He sat pondering for several moments. “You

  people puzzle me,” he began again. “You dress like white folk. You look like white folk. Yet you speak with our tongue. How is that so?”

  AP’s mind was racing to come up with a likely story, but the old man resolved the problem for him. “You were taken by the Sioux when you were young. Your parents died and my people raised you like their own. Is this so?”

  “Yes,” agreed AP, “that’s exactly what happened.”

  Kate smiled and nodded too.

  “We stayed with our Sioux family for three summers and three winters,” AP said, slipping into this new role. “Then we were taken back east.” He emphasized the word “taken” to suggest it was against their will.

  “We have been away from this land too long,” continued AP, noticing Kate’s astonished expression. “Now we’ve returned.”

  “So much has changed in our world,” said the old man sadly. Then he asked, “What name do they call you out east?”

  “Arthur Percival,” AP replied after a moment’s hesitation.

  “That is a bad name.” Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I will call you Young Man Who Sits Too Much.”

  Turning to Kate he said, “You shall be Gold Butterfly Woman. It is a lucky name—

  you will have a good life.”

  Kate smiled at the old man. And, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt a closeness, like the bond she had shared with her grandfather.

  “What is your name?” asked AP.

  The old man smiled. “I am Talking Cloud.” Grasping an overhead branch, he stood up from his comfortable perch. “Come. We will go to the village now. You have chosen a good day to return—the hunting goes well and there will be feasting tonight.”

  What Talking Cloud meant by a “village” is what Kate and AP would have called a campsite—a scattering of tents in an idyllic spot where campers could be at one with nature. But this was like no campsite they knew. The towering tipis would have dwarfed their tiny pup tent, and there was so much activity. Children and dogs ran wild, while adults attended to chores or relaxed in the shade.

  Two small boys sneaked up on a rack of buffalo meat drying in the sun. Using a tipi for cover, they waited until the woman preparing the meat turned her back. Then they each made a grab for a tasty treat. When she spotted them, all they got was a mock scolding. Dashing off, they joined a band of hunters who were running and whooping between tipis, aiming make-believe bows at imaginary buffalo. Several dogs joined in the chase. When the woman returned to her work, she noticed that Talking Cloud had returned.

  Talking Cloud made several stops along the way to greet people, giving Kate and AP an opportunity to talk alone.

  “How come everyone’s so friendly?” asked Kate. “We’ve just walked into their village, a pair of total strangers—white strangers—and nobody minds.”

  “I guess it’s because we’re with Talking Cloud. Things might be different if we came here on our own.”

  “I think he’s the Chief,” said Kate.

  “He could be,” agreed AP. “Everyone listens to him. When he comes back, ask him.”

  Kate’s question amused Talking Cloud. “You’ve been living with the Wasichus—

  the white folk—too long! We don’t have chiefs like they do, each reporting to the one above. Our people do what they want.”

  “But they listen to you,” Kate reasoned.

  “People listen to me and to other old men.” He smiled. “With wrinkles comes wisdom they say.”

  “Do the people ask elders for guidance?” Kate continued.

  “They seek our advice and we give it. Nobody tells anyone what to do though. We have some great leaders, but they don’t rule.”

  AP pointed to the tipis. “Do the same people live here all the time?”

  “We come together for spring and summer to hunt game. Some also spend winter together, while others go their own way.

  “Are you all from the same tribe?”

  “Yes. We are Oglala Sioux. Part of the Sioux Nation.” He stared at the village, as if searching for something. Then he closed his eyes. “Young Man Who Sits Too Much, how many tipis do you see?”

  AP counted them quickly. “Twenty-two.”

  “Is that all?”

  AP counted again. “Yes.”

  “Do you know how many I see?” asked Talking Cloud, eyes still closed. “More tipis than stars in the heavens.

  “Once we were many people, from different Sioux tribes—Lakota, Nakota, Santee, Hunkpapa—together with our Cheyenne and Arapaho brothers. They were good times.”

  He stood for a moment, and then opened his eyes. “Enough talk. Come, you must meet Sings To Her Children.”

  Arriving outside his own tipi, Talking Cloud gestured Kate and AP to enter. After the hot sun, it was cooler and dark inside. Compared with the tents they knew, the tipi was a mansion. The walls tapered high above their heads, with a smoke hole at the top for the fireplace below. “This is my wife, Sings To Her Children,” he announced, introducing an elderly woman the same height as AP. “My dear, this is Gold Butterfly Woman and her brother, Young Man Who Sits Too Much.”

  His wife grinned, revealing more gaps than teeth. She was happy to meet them and, with typical Sioux hospitality, invited them to use her tipi as their own.

  Talking Cloud made more introductions. “This is my second wife, Running Deer. She is my wife’s youngest sister. I married Running Deer after her husband was killed during a raid on the Crow tribe.”

  His second wife was equally friendly, and just as old.

  “And this is my older brother, Sleeps A Lot, and his wife, Buffalo Woman.”

  His brother shuffled forward, yawning and stretching.

  “So many names,” thought AP. “But I’ll remember his!”

  While AP talked with Talking Cloud and his brother, the women led Kate away.

  “We’ve so much room,” Sings To Her Children told Kate. “Most families sleep eight and more.” Then, pointing to a pile of buffalo-hide blankets, “I’ll put you and your brother here. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  Kate than
ked her and said they’d be fine.

  “We usually cook the evening meal at this time,” she continued, “but tonight there’s a feast and—”

  Suddenly a loud commotion erupted outside. Shouting and screaming heralded the thunder of hooves as riders charged through the village. Then the shooting began.

  “We’re being attacked!” yelled AP.

  Talking Cloud was first out of the tipi, followed by his family. AP and Kate were

  last. They just stood there, terrified, not knowing what to do or where to run.

  “They’re back!” shouted Talking Cloud. “Let’s give them a good welcome.”

  Kate and AP exchanged bewildered stares.

  “The buffalo hunters have returned!” cried their host. “Be prepared for some brave talk!”

  “I am the greatest hunter in the land,” yelled one young brave, waving his bow. “My arrows flew fast and true. I took two buffalo!”

  “Only two?” shouted a second. “I got twice that number!”

  “I killed more buffalo than either of you!” shouted a third. “My bow hand was flying so fast it was invisible.”

  “See this?” yelled another, holding up a rifle. “I shot more buffalo with my fire-stick than all you bow-pullers together!” He was one of the few with a firearm.

  The boasts and taunts continued, until the aroma of roasting meat proved too much for them.

  “Their bellies are bigger than their tongues!” scoffed Talking Cloud. “But first they must cleanse themselves.” Kate thought he meant the usual washing of hands before dinner, but she was wrong.

  “Buffalo, like birds in the air or humans on the land, have spirits. Everything has a spirit, even the smallest pebble. And everything is connected by Wakan Tanka, the supreme power of the universe.”

  Kate and AP wondered where all this was leading.

  “When an animal has been killed, the taker of that life must make peace with its spirit. This clears the record, restoring balance to the universe. By appealing to the spirits of the buffalo they have killed, hunters ensure that others will be willing to die in future.”

  The fire pit reminded AP and Kate of the one in medieval England, except it was larger and the spits longer. And these were skewered with big buffalo roasts instead of sizzling pigs. The feast itself bore little resemblance to the Arthurian one. Held outdoors, without tables or chairs, it was more like a picnic than a banquet. Everyone sat on the ground wherever they pleased, with no special places for elders. Although it seemed casual, people dressed up for the occasion, and most of the men wore a single eagle feather in their hair. Without speeches, or wine, there was no raucous cheering, and everyone was content to chat among themselves and focus on the serious business of eating.

  “I can’t believe people’s appetites!” whispered Kate, nodding toward one lady. She was tearing bites from a piece of meat bigger than what the Littletons usually had for Sunday dinner.

  “But it was so good,” said AP. “Even you ate a lot!”

  Kate nodded, smiling.

  The feasting continued late into the night, with people returning to the fire pit time and again to hack off more meat.

  “Would it be okay if we went to bed before Talking Cloud?” asked AP, stifling a yawn.

  She glanced across at the old man, engrossed in a lively discussion about hunting.

  “I think so. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Kate and AP’s adventures in the West had been enjoyable so far—aside from their water shortage, and the stampede scare. But for the man who was stalking them, things had gone disastrously wrong from the start.

  Chapter 14: Robert Drew

  When Robert Drew opened his eyes and saw the sky, he knew he was still alive. His swollen foot was turning purple, and he barely recognized the sausages that used to be toes. He gulped from his water bottle, stopping himself in case he drank it dry. Without help, death was certain.

  Keeping the weight on the good leg, he struggled to his feet.

  The grass, blowing in the breeze like an ocean, seemed to go on forever. Then he spotted a lone tree, off in the distance. Although stunted, it would be visible for miles in this terrain. If he could tie his shirt to a branch, someone might notice and come to investigate. This was his only hope.

  Hopping to the tree was exhausting—the pain unbearable—but he made it. After a short rest, he pulled off his shirt, reached as high as possible, and tied it on. Slumping to the ground, he took a short drink—the bottle was half empty.

  The rest of the day was spent drifting in and out of sleep. As he lay there, trying to ignore his raging thirst, he heard an unfamiliar jangling. He struggled to his feet, but his good leg buckled and he tumbled to the ground.

  “Lucky I saw your shirt,” said his rescuer. “You wouldn’t have lasted another day the shape you’re in.”

  The injured man nodded without taking the bottle from his lips. Like his own water canister, this one was flat and round and made of tin—but it was full.

  “Now you can drink all you want, I’ve plenty more, but it does no good filling your belly like that.”

  “You’re right,” he replied, lowering the bottle. “I’m so thirsty though.”

  “My name’s Sam Carter, though the Indians call me One Tooth.” He grinned, leaving no doubt how he got his name. “What’s yours?”

  “Robert Drew. And I’m so thankful to meet you.” He struggled to shake hands, but Sam stopped him.

  “You just stay put—you’re too weak to move—and let me see that foot.”

  “It looks real nasty,” he said after a brief examination. “What happened?”

  “A rattlesnake bit me.”

  Sam Carter let out a low whistle. “You should’ve been more careful where you was walking, boy. Nobody gets bit by a rattler!” He shook his head. “You ain’t from these parts, right?”

  “No. I’m from out east. Philadelphia.”

  “You sure look like a city dweller.”

  Robert Drew frowned—he thought he looked the part with his cowboy hat and boots.

  Sam shook his head, smiling. “Apart from getting yourself bit,” he began to explain, “your hands are as smooth as a baby’s. Your bones have no meat either!”

  Robert Drew was painfully thin and without a shirt he was a living skeleton. Every rib showed, and his spine stuck out like a row of knucklebones. Even his face was bony, with its sharply-pointed nose and high cheekbones. He was in his early forties, though his blond hair and sharp features made him look younger.

  “You’re real lucky, boy!” said Sam after a closer inspection of his foot. “That ol’ rattler missed you with one of his fangs so you only got half the poison. Mind you, if you’d done your boots up right he’d have missed you altogether.”

  “My foot will be alright then?”

  “It’ll hurt for a few days, but you’ll be back to normal in a week or so.”

  Drew was so relieved at this that he managed a smile.

  “Just sit tight,” said Sam, making toward his mules. “I’ve got something that’ll help the swelling.”

  Sam had six mules, one for riding and the others for hauling. They were piled high with packs of all shapes and sizes containing kettles, pans, mugs, jugs, brushes, choppers and knives.

  Like his mules, Sam was short and stocky. He wore a tall battered hat with a long feather, an old army jacket with unmatched pants and worn-out boots. His ruddy face always looked happy.

  “I’m a trader,” Sam told his guest over supper before a campfire. “I also mend pots, grind axes, sharpen blades, make brooms and fix things. A jack-of-all-trades!”

  “And an excellent cook!”

  Sam nodded at the compliment.

  “Who do you trade with?”

  “Anyone and everyone. Indians, settlers, the Army—they’re all good customers.”

  “What do you get from the Indians?”

  “Mostly buffalo hides. Dried meat and pemmican too—that comes in handy duri
ng winter.”

  “Are the Indians friendly?”

  “Sure. I get along with them fine. I’ve been trading with the Indians all my life. Be fair with them and they’ll treat you right.” He tossed more wood on the fire and started brewing a pot of coffee.

  “So, Robert Drew, what brings you to Montana? You’re obviously not here to trade with the Sioux!”

  “Family business,” he replied, vaguely.

  Sam looked puzzled.

  “My brother’s kids.” He paused, scratching an imaginary itch while he thought about his story. “They—ran away from home. The family’s worried sick. I’ve got to find.”

  “How old are they?”

  “The boy’s about twelve, his sister’s a few years older.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Well, they were from the east—originally. Born and raised in Philadelphia. But my brother decided to move out west and start farming.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Three years.”

  “And how long have the kids been gone?”

  “A few days.”

  Sam pulled an old rag from his pocket to lift the hot coffee from the fire.

  “Maybe they’ll meet up with some homesteaders.” Sam paused to pour the coffee. “More likely Indians will pick them up. You can tag along with me when you’re feeling better—I’m visiting all the hunting camps. If anyone’s seen or heard of those kids, I’ll be the first to know.” Sam smiled. “Indians love to talk.”

  Robert Drew’s sudden alertness had nothing to do with the strong coffee.

  Chapter 15: Counting Coup

  Kate awoke to the sound of snoring. She could see blue sky through the top of the tipi and AP was already awake.

  “I’ve been lying here for ages,” he whispered. “I couldn’t sleep with all this noise. Let’s get dressed and sneak outside.”

  The village didn’t stir until late morning. Even then—with meat to dry, hides to clean, and all the other chores—nobody was in a hurry to do anything.

  “You got up early,” said Talking Cloud, sitting cross-legged outside his tipi. “You don’t like sleep?”

  “Yes I do!” said Kate, who seldom awoke before 10 on weekends. “I just saw the sun and felt like getting up.”

 

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