The Sacrifice

by Diane Matcheck

  That night they left on their raid against the Cheyenne, and two nights later Born-great was trampled in the ambush. But that was not the end of him. His ghost cast a long, vengeful shadow.

  Now, however, she would finally have her chance. The things she would need for the war party stood packed and waiting inside her lodge, ready to be snatched up and strapped onto Bull’s back. She walked to the outer edge of the crowd, where the firelight did not reach, and knelt in the darkness.

  Redwing, a tall man of seventy winters and the leader of the village, lifted his hands to quiet the crowd. “It is time,” he said.

  As the people took their places, Redwing, Broken Branch, and the other elders sat in a half circle facing them. A splendid pipe, with a red bowl shaped like a horsehead and snakes carved around the stem, was lit, raised to the four sacred directions, and passed quietly among the elders. The men did not speak, but each sent his silent prayer for victory with the smoke up to the spirits. The fire licked around the logs and popped in the cold night air.

  She was hungry like the fire, but she had to wait until the right moment to speak. When the smoking ended, there would be women calling for someone to avenge the murders of their family members, and songs of war from the scouts. The Crazy-dogs-wishing-to-die would vow to run into the middle of the Headcutter camp and stake their red sashes to the ground with their lances and call out, “It is a good day to die,” and fight to the death. Finally, Cut-ear, the leader of the party, would announce his men. Then she would speak.

  But all these preliminaries passed so quickly she felt rushed ahead of her courage.

  Cut-ear was stepping forward. “I have heard the cries of my wife’s mother for her son,” he said angrily. “She has handed me the war pipe, and I shall carry it. I carry it for all you who cry.”

  He motioned another man forward. “Moose’s Beard will be my scout,” he announced. Moose’s Beard wore a wolfskin tied onto his back, denoting his role.

  It was almost time. Cut-ear introduced his herald and two more scouts. As soon as he finished speaking, there would be a beat of silence, and she must act.

  “And also, on his first raid,” Cut-ear said as the men crowded behind him, “I take Laughing Crow.”

  She choked back a shout of indignation as Laughing Crow strode forward and stood with the warriors. Her cheeks burned at being forced to share the warpath and glory with this worm, but she had no time for anger. Now was the moment.

  She stood. “I, too,” she began in a whisper, and had to clear her throat. “I, too, wish to go with the war party,” she said.

  For an instant it seemed no one had heard. Then some of the people turned and looked at her. She almost wished she could hide her face paint and new clothes. There was a silence, then a murmuring. She forced herself onward.

  “A Headcutter killed my father,” she said, louder. “As my father’s kin I have the right to settle this matter by slaying a Headcutter.”

  “Let us have no foolishness,” Redwing said flatly.

  “You have no such right,” said Not-turning-around. “And no right to speak at council.”

  Cut-ear stood ready to continue, ignoring the interruption.

  “I am well trained and ready for battle,” the girl said. “I felled three buffalo during the last hunt.”

  “That is nothing to boast of,” Cut-ear snapped. “Be grateful the tribal guard did not whip you until you could never ride again.”

  Moose’s Beard looked at the girl appraisingly. “She does have a fire,” he said. Then to her he added, “But hunting is not war. One of your father’s other relations will avenge his death.”

  Redwing spoke. “Other women mourn, but they do not go on the warpath. Why do you not do as they do? Ask one of the warriors to avenge your father’s death for you.”

  “Perhaps she cannot pay; her father was not well off,” a woman’s voice said.

  The girl gritted her teeth. “I don’t need a warrior—I am a warrior.”

  “Don’t worry, little one, I will kill a Headcutter for you,” Laughing Crow called to her.

  “That is enough,” Broken Branch said.

  The girl thrust a finger toward Laughing Crow. “He is only two winters older than I.”

  “At your age,” Moose’s Beard said, lifting his chin in her direction, “two winters is a long time. Two winters can be the difference between boy and man.”

  “And she’s not even a boy,” Laughing Crow said under his breath.

  “I am more of a man than you’ll ever be,” she spat.

  “I am wondering if that is not true.” Broken Branch looked coldly at Laughing Crow.

  The murmuring had grown loud. She knew it was going against her, but there was no backing down.

  “Weak-one,” Broken Branch said, “have no fear, your father’s death will be avenged by the war party.”

  “Let us continue,” said Not-turning-around. The girl could feel her moment sliding away.

  “I will be recognized,” she insisted.

  Broken Branch stood, walked a pace or two, and dropped his head back as if to look for guidance in the stars. His loose black hair fell nearly to his knees. “Your father was a courageous man and my lifelong friend.” He stretched an arm out toward Lies-down-in-water. “I give you my word, my son will avenge your father’s death.” Lies-down-in-water, eyes fixed on hers, nodded once. A strange, hot embarrassment pierced her.

  Before she could think, Broken Branch addressed the crowd. “I say it here before the entire village, that all may know I am sincere: This girl is welcome in my lodge. I will gladly adopt her as my own daughter.”

  Then he said gently, “But we cannot permit you to go to war.”

  She felt ashamed by Broken Branch’s kindness, drawn to him, and frightened by her sudden softening. She knew what the people were thinking: she must be adopted, even at her age, because no man wanted her.

  “But you let my brother go to war when he was four winters old.”

  “That was a mistake,” said Broken Branch heavily.

  “Because I am the one,” she said. “My brother died because I am the Great One!” In her heart she had never been convinced that this was true, but she clung to it.

  “This kind of nonsense is what killed the other one,” bellowed Redwing, “and many good men with him.”

  Murmurs and comments tumbled in her ears.

  “She is bad in the head, like her father…”

  “I was against it then and I am against it now.”

  “You must let me go,” she cried.

  “I have nothing to say.” A young voice slipped through the clamor. Grasshopper, his sash trailing on the ground, made his way toward the council fire. “I have nothing to say.”

  “Enough,” said an elder who had been silent. “This is an Apsaalooka council.”

  Broken Branch said, “I would hear my son speak.”

  Over muffled complaints, Grasshopper faced the people. With his back to the fire, his expression was shrouded in darkness.

  “I do not know this girl better than anyone else here,” he said crosswise. She tried to block him out, but the unexpected strength in his voice rang in her ears. “And she is a worse warrior than Laughing Crow. She should not be permitted to go.”

  The crowd drowned his voice, or perhaps she stopped hearing for a moment. She could scarcely believe that Grasshopper had spoken on her behalf. She was filled with an irrational fear.

  “The discussion is ended,” Redwing said.

  “Let us be off,” said Cut-ear, and the warriors called for their wives and sisters to bring the horses.

  The villagers began crowding around the men, wishing them well.

  “I am not bad in the head,” she cried.

  Some of the villagers looked in her direction, then turned away.

  “You are right,” Broken Branch said quietly beside her. She turned in surprise. “You are not bad in the head. You are bad in the heart. I know you have good reason to have a bad h
eart, Weak One, but what is the reason to keep a bad heart?”

  To the medicine man’s question she had no answer. Could those eyes of his see that she was a murderer? “I am not the Weak One,” she lashed out.

  “I know,” he said.

  The warriors were packed and mounted and turning upriver, while the people trotted alongside urging them on. They passed her by as though she did not exist.

  “One day I will arrive in this village with a black face,” she shouted at them bitterly. “And you people who laugh at me tonight will beg me to dine in your lodges, and sing praise songs about me. Your children will sing songs about me. And your children’s children.”

  Broken Branch touched her elbow, and she jerked away. He said gently, “My lodge will be open to you, when you are ready.”

  She was so ashamed all she could do was run.

  Laughing Crow raced up on horseback and cut her off, wheeling his mare around so closely in front of her that the animal stepped on her foot. She clenched her jaw, refusing to let him see her pain. She slapped the animal’s flank, but Laughing Crow held it firm. He said nothing, only sneered at her for an instant, then whipped his mare soundly, and with a lurch he was gone.

  The girl ran back to her lodge and collapsed onto her bed robes. Rolling onto her back, she looked up through the open smoke flaps into the black, starless sky, and suddenly she knew what to do. She had nothing to lose. She would follow the war party. She would carefully keep her distance so that she would not be discovered, and show herself when they had gone too far to send her back. Boys sometimes tried this tactic, and sometimes it worked.

  No, Born-great would not stop her this way.

  The girl waited until she heard no more voices or shufflings, until she could be certain that no one was still afoot in the village. Then, when she could stand the wait no longer, she rose and gathered her gear and listened at the lodge entrance. All was quiet. In the cold air her breath frosted as she made her way through the sleeping village, trying not to disturb the dogs. They knew her well and let her pass unchallenged.

  The horses shifted uneasily at being approached in the middle of the night.

  “Wake up, Bull,” she whispered, patting the big horse’s neck. “We are traveling tonight after all.”

  5

  She looked out over the dark tangle of rivers that snaked in their separate directions toward the surrounding mountains, and breathed in the cold wind deeply so the damp, earthy smell of spring would waken her senses. She had grown sleepy from riding so long.

  “We are away from home now, Bull,” she whispered. The girl had never traveled much beyond Where-the-rivers-come-together, the place where three rivers joined to form Big River before it spilled into their valley. From here she must be especially watchful, for enemies and for the war party’s trail. The war party would ride along the near river for a while, then turn toward the sunrise and the open plains. She would follow the river, too, and when it grew light she would begin searching for signs. She pressed her heels into Bull’s ribs.

  The wind rushed around her, blocking out everything but the feel of rhythmic thudding of hooves on earth, and the rolling motion beneath her. She began to nod off, but she could not sleep if she was to catch the war party. They would be riding all night, and over the next day or two they would stop only briefly for a little sleep and to rest the horses.

  Without halting, she reached into the forward saddlebag for a length of thick leather cordage. She looped it around her waist and lashed both ends to the saddle, just as mothers did to keep children from falling when the village traveled during the night.

  Suddenly her face slammed against something solid, and brightness slashed her eyes. She could not find her bearings. Her face bounced against the thing again, and again. It was moving … Bull’s leg. She was hanging half off her horse. Her hand scrabbled for his mane but felt only stubble. Finally she found the pommel, pulled herself up, and halted.

  The sun was high and melting white. She squinted into it and looked about her. She was on a plain surrounded by small mountains, and beyond them stood more mountains, and far beyond them, big, jagged mountains. It looked much like her own valley, and like Where-the-rivers-come-together. But there was no river.

  She listened for the rushing sound of water, but heard only the wind’s voice. Her eyes found no distant string of trees such as lined rivers in many places.

  They must have turned away from the river, for surely they had not crossed it. But in what direction, and how far? The sun was centered in the sky; had Bull been walking the whole time? Probably he had stopped to rest and graze, perhaps for most of the morning. From the look of him, though, he might have plodded ahead without stopping. His breathing was labored.

  It was impossible to judge how far they had traveled, or in what direction, or whether they had traveled in circles. Indeed, the river might lie just the other side of this valley.

  “I have a plan, Bull,” she said, and slid from his back.

  She walked him across the valley to the edge of the mountains, and searched the gullies for water. A bright green patch of grass caught her eye and led her to a small marshy area and the trickle of a spring that fed it. She let Bull drink while she uncinched the saddle and packs and checked his back for hot spots.

  “I will picket you here,” she told him, pounding the stake in the ground. “You can eat while I climb up and look about.”

  A hard wind was driving over the mountaintop and she had to hold her hair back with both hands to see. In every direction, she looked upon unfamiliar mountains and valleys. Toward where the sun rises, she made out two threads that could have been creeks, and just beyond, a wide river. No river lay in the other direction.

  Could Bull have crossed the river? It was raging with spring thaw, but perhaps beyond the forks there was a place where it spread itself wide and thin across a plain, where it would be easy to cross. If Bull had wandered across the river while she slept, they would be on the other side of it now. Then it could be the one she saw.

  The girl cursed herself for falling asleep.

  Born-great’s ghost must be laughing now. She snatched up a rock and hurled it as hard as she could. The rock bounced crazily down the mountainside and ricocheted into the expanse surrounding her.

  6

  She did not know whether she was doing the right thing, but now that her belly was full with dried meat she felt emboldened to forge onward.

  Even if she could find her way back to the village, what was there for her? Nothing, if she returned with nothing to show.

  She mounted Bull and looked about her grimly.

  There was still a slight chance she could pick up the war party’s trail. No matter what river she had seen, she must ride toward it, for certainly Bull had not crossed the mighty Elk, beyond which the Headcutters lived.

  She rode to a pass through the mountains into the next valley and wound her way through a series of little valleys before breaking into the valley of the river. She could now see it was a vast, rolling plain speckled with sagebrush, much like the village’s summer camp, flanked far in the distance by mountains. Sage and rabbit brush tingled in her nostrils. Snow lay in large patches on the flattened tan grass like spots on a paint horse. The broad hills seemed to beckon her to gallop across them and whirl about with sheer pleasure at their openness.

  She kept a tight rein, however. She did not know what enemies she might meet here—Headcutters or Cheyenne or Blackfoot, or even tribes she had never heard of.

  She scanned the landscape. A large herd of buffalo was wallowing downriver, and a few pronghorns stood looking at her. She watched for some time, but saw nothing to indicate the presence of other humans, so she rode out to the river.

  It was twenty horses wide and running furiously. She looked to the buffalo again. Where there were this many, enemies might well be concealed nearby preparing for the hunt. She did not want to alarm the animals and thus give herself away, so she followed the river in
the other direction.

  She saw many tracks in the dried mud—muskrat, buffalo, rabbit, mice, deer, coyote, bobcat, an occasional bear—but no sign of horses. She walked Bull along the grassy bank until it was too dark to distinguish prints from shadows. They spent the night in the open, away from the river. She slept hard, but a nightmare jolted her awake before dawn. She sat up, gasping in the dark, trying to calm herself. It was a familiar dream, in which Born-great was hiding behind their father’s backrest with a hatchet, waiting for her to fall asleep. After this dream, she never went back to sleep.

  As soon as there was light enough to see by, she started on her way again.

  Three more days dragged on. The country was changing now. For long stretches, hills pressed close to the river. Twice she spotted horse tracks, but they were too old to have been made by the war party. Toward evening of the third day, she came to a place where the river forked.

  She rubbed her neck, stiff from peering so long at the ground. Ahead, the main river branched off toward the sunrise and was lost in woods and cliffs. She strained her eyes in the gathering dusk. This way would probably be impassable.

  She did not think any Headcutters lived this far toward the land of forever summer. With every step she might be riding farther from the trail she sought.

  She searched the ground halfheartedly a while longer, until a track stopped her abruptly. She slid to the ground and crouched to examine it more closely. Several indistinct tracks led to this one at the water’s edge, printed clearly in wet sand. A large bear had stepped here, recently. The angle of the toes and the long distance between the toes and the claw tips told her it was a grizzly. She pressed both hands into the deep print. A large grizzly.

  Fearful of stumbling upon the creature in the dark, she decided to make camp immediately. She snatched Bull’s bridle and led him quietly up a long, grassy slope. When she was satisfied they had left the bear behind, she unloaded Bull in a stand of slender aspen near a stream. A tender spot had developed on his back from the saddle. She packed it with mud and picketed him close by to graze.