by Mike Blakely
The Burnt Meat People were out of the canyon now and moving back across the high ground. It was the same ground they had crossed yesterday, but now they were weary and deep in sorrow. River Woman carried the cradle board on her back this morning, and the baby girl, Mouse, was crying. She could not reach far enough over her shoulder to put her hand over her daughter’s mouth and quiet her crying. Though Shaggy Hump had taken River Woman as his wife largely because of her beauty, she appeared ugly this morning with all her hair cut off and her eyes swollen from mourning her dead parents.
Behind her walked Looks Away, who had come to Shaggy Hump last night as Black Horn lay dying. He would never have taken a second wife as long as River Woman’s parents were alive, for it would only have meant another stomach to fill. Now everything had changed in the time it took the moon to cross the sky. In time, it would be well. Looks Away was quiet, and not as strong or as fiery as River Woman, but it was good to feel a different woman under him, and she would take some of the burdens of a wife’s duties from River Woman. In time, River Woman would see that this way was good.
Looks Away had mourned quietly, but Shaggy Hump knew her sorrow was real. When Black Horn died, at dawn, she had cut her hair over his resting place and stared into the crevice with vacant eyes, tears streaming.
“He was your husband,” River Woman said, turning suddenly to face Looks Away. “You did not even cry out. You are no wife for a warrior! You did not even cut yourself! Coward! You should have gone with him!”
Shaggy Hump saw the angry eyes of River Woman glance his way, to make sure he had heard.
“Do not walk so close behind me!” River Woman struck Looks Away with a stick she used to guide the dogs. “You are so ugly that you make my baby cry!”
This was a bad day for both women, Shaggy Hump thought. It was well that he would not have to listen to River Woman torment Looks Away all day on the trail. He was going instead to avenge his brother and bring home his brother’s horse.
“Father,” Shadow said. “Do the True Humans have many enemies?”
“Yes,” Shaggy Hump said. “Like the snowflakes of a long winter. They are bitter and cold against us. Where the sun rises live the Wolf People. Where it sets are the Crow and Flathead. To the north lie the camps of the White Knives and Northern Raiders, and in the south, the Yutas. The Noomah have no friends. We trade with the Raccoon-Eyed People and the Mandan, it is true, but these people will not fight our wars with us. Every way we turn, we must fight. If we do not fight, we shall die, and our families shall die before our eyes, as you have now seen, my son.”
“The Northern Raiders must be our fiercest enemies,” Shadow said.
Shaggy Hump thought some time before he answered, and he watched many people, dogs, and lodge poles pass. “No,” he said, finally. “There is one much worse, called Na-vohnuh.”
“Where do these enemies live, my father?”
“I do not know. I have never seen one.”
“Are they like the Nenupee?”
“No. The Nenupee are little people, standing only as tall as my knee. They come out only at night, and they shoot arrows that always kill. They are very evil, so beware of them in the night, and stay near your lodge.”
“The Na-vohnuh are large people?”
“They stand as tall as I stand, as tall as you one day shall stand, my son. They do not have the evil medicine of the Nenupee, but they are cruel. In days long behind us, days of our grandfathers’ grandfathers, the Noomah and the Na-vohnuh were always at war. The Na-vohnuh killed whole villages of True Humans to feast upon their flesh. Others they tortured slowly, keeping them alive for days.”
“Where have they gone?”
“Somewhere in the south. That is all I know. The wars with the Na-vohnuh were long ago. No one remembers where the Na-vohnuh may now be found. But, there have been puhakuts among the True Humans, puhakuts with strong visions, who say we will meet the terrible Na-vohnuh again in war.”
“How will we know the Na-vohnuh, Father?”
“By the way they call our kind. They call us Idahi. Speak this, that you may remember, my son.”
“Idahi,” Shadow said.
“Our fathers have told us to remember this name. It means Snake People in the tongue of the Na-vohnuh, for they would step upon us like snakes. We will know them by this name they call us and by their customs.”
“What customs, Father?”
“Strange customs, my son. The warriors cut all the hair off above their ear on the bow side, and grow it very long on the arrow side. Remember this, so you will know them at a glance. They remove the eggs of lice from their clothing with their teeth, making the eggs pop between their teeth. And, so the old storytellers say, their penises are infested with maggots!”
Shadow gasped.
“When the True Humans find these Na-vohnuh, my son, we must drive them away from their hunting grounds. We must kill their warriors and destroy their villages. They are terrible people who cast evil spells on anyone who shows them mercy. I hope I am still alive when we find them, for I want to scalp plenty of them!”
Shadow seemed less troubled after hearing his father boast his love for battle, and the two of them watched as the last pole-drag passed, its tracks plain on the ground to either side of the paw prints of the dog that pulled it.
“You must go with your mother now, Shadow. And I must trail the Northern Raiders. When I see you again, we will have a scalp dance!”
Shadow rode away in a lope to catch up with his mother. Shaggy Hump smiled, proud of his son’s riding ability. The boy moved with the loping pony like a bird clutching the branch of a tree that waved in the wind. He watched his son ride away, then turned northward to find a secluded place where he could pray to his guardian spirits to guide him into battle.
* * *
The moon was right when Shaggy Hump found the enemy warriors two sleeps north of the Canyon of Red Rock. It was the time of the Moon Wearing Away, when his enemies would sleep most soundly. The Raiders were packing buffalo meat back to their village on the horse they had stolen from Black Horn.
It had been easy to follow them, for their burden had made the tracks of the horse press hard against the ground. Still, Shaggy Hump had ridden carefully, dismounting before every rise to crawl ahead and look for the enemy warriors. In this way he had found the smoke of their fire just before sunset, climbing up from some timber along a stream, then turning to trail away on a high breeze, looking like a gray snake hanging over a ledge. He was among the foothills of the Mountains of Bighorn Sheep—a place Shaggy Hump had visited only once before, for it was well within the range of the Northern Raiders.
He left his horse many arrow shots away and crawled closer to get a look at the enemy, keeping his head below the tops of the sage bushes. The stream and the timber poured out of the mouth of a canyon here, making a good place to camp. He could see that the Raiders had wrapped the body of the warrior Black Horn had killed in a fresh buffalo hide. This told Shaggy Hump that the main enemy camp was near, for the warriors were taking the body home instead of burying it here. Beside the body lay the warrior Black Horn had cut across the belly with his white flint knife. The other three warriors were unhurt, and one kept the Fire Stick forever at his side.
Shaggy Hump could tell that they were young warriors who had gone out to scout and hunt and had gotten themselves into more mischief than they could handle. They were making no attempt to guard their back-trail against pursuit. They did not understand the ways of war like the True Humans—a people forever hunted. Tonight he would teach them.
After crawling back to his pony, Shaggy Hump prayed silently and used paint of red clay and berry juice from his paint pouch to make the war marks upon his face: two red streaks streaming snakelike, downward from his cheeks to his jawline. Waiting for darkness to fall and the moon to rise, he crept downwind of the enemy camp to plan his attack. The fire had burned out, and only the moon and stars made light. He smelled the faint trace of smo
ke and the aroma of horse sweat, and knew he was very near. He carried only his knife and war club with which to kill, though he had also brought along a single arrow with a chipped point and half a feather missing—one he did not mind parting with.
He thought about each step he took, testing the ground gradually with his weight in case a cracking stick from the willow and cottonwood timber or a pair of rocks scraping together might warn the Raiders. Once, a dried leaf crackled as he shifted on one foot for balance, and he remained still a very long time to ensure he had not been discovered.
The spirits were making the winds gust with their breath, causing the sounds of whistling tree branches and scuttering leaves to cover his approach, and he moved more rapidly than he otherwise might have.
Finally, he was upon the camp and could hear the feet of the horse shifting from time to time. He could see all three of the unwounded warriors sleeping now. One slept near the horse, guarding it. The rawhide thong around the animal’s neck was also wrapped around this warrior’s wrist. He was curled in his robe at the roots of a sohoobi tree—the kind of tree that rained little tufts of white hair in the spring. The other two warriors had gone to sleep some ten or twelve steps away, beside the fire. Beyond them were the corpse of the dead Raider and the wounded man, moaning in his sleep.
The wind came up, allowing three quick steps, and Shaggy Hump was upon the rawhide thong. He grabbed it just as his scent reached the nostrils of the horse, which pulled against the rawhide in curiosity, for the beast knew Shaggy Hump’s scent. Keeping the thong from pulling at the wrist of the sleeping guard, Shaggy Hump began slowly sawing at the rawhide with the iron knife his son had captured in the battle of the Red Canyon.
When at last the rawhide had been cut, Shaggy Hump tied the horse to a stout tree, which would prevent the horse from wandering off as he went about his duty. He chose each step carefully, until he was standing over the sleeping guard. He raised his pogamoggan in one hand, taking the rawhide line he had cut in the other.
He pulled gently on the rawhide, as if the horse were moving away. Two coils of the rawhide slipped off of the Raider’s wrist before he grabbed it, half-asleep. Shaggy Hump slacked the tension, then pulled harder. The Raider jerked angrily, as if to punish the horse. Shaggy Hump waited for the next gust to roar in the treetops, then pulled once more on the rawhide, horselike.
The enemy warrior grunted and revealed his head from within the robe. The pogamoggan struck swiftly, and hard. Its thump against the skull caused the horse to shy, the hooves sounding much like the thump of the club upon the head. This was good. As the wind died, Shaggy Hump fell upon the enemy with his knife and cut his throat.
He listened as he felt the hot blood, and he could tell by a change in breathing that one of the other warriors near the ashes of the fire had woken and was listening. Shaggy Hump waited until his victim died, then waited longer. Longer. When he was sure the warrior at the fire suspected nothing and had gone back to sleep, he began taking the scalp from the warrior he had slain.
He did not take a large part of the scalp, for wrenching that much from the skull would have made much noise. He only took a small scalp lock, enough to dance around upon his return.
Tucking the trophy under the thong of his loin skins beneath his deerskin shirt, Shaggy Hump stood once more and judged the ground between himself and the two Raiders near the fire. There were many leaves and sticks here. He would have to slide a moccasin under them gradually for each step, waiting for the wind to cover the sound of his approach.
His legs and back became stiff from the hard work of creeping upon his foes, but at last he stood between them. The moon was almost gone behind the ridge, and Shaggy Hump knew he must finish quickly, for he needed light to find footing out of this enemy camp.
He knelt, slowly, over the Raider who slept with the Fire Stick. He could only see the end of the evil thing sticking out of the buffalo robe, and he knew from the stories that this end was the one which shot embers and bad medicine. He reached for it with the hand that held his knife, though the Fire Stick was very near the face of the sleeping enemy. His club was ready in case this warrior should wake.
Holding the iron knife with his thumb and two small fingers, he reached for the end of the Fire Stick with his bowstring fingers. He touched it cautiously, felt its chill. This was iron, the thing of the white man. Once, Shaggy Hump had thought the white man a legend made up by lesser peoples. He had since decided that this white man must exist somewhere, for he kept hearing more and more strange tales—from the Raccoon-Eyed People with whom he traded, and from women captured from enemies and made into wives of the Burnt Meat People’s warriors. They said the white men grew hair out all over their faces, which Shaggy Hump thought must look very ugly, for the most handsome men were those who plucked all the hair from the chins, brows, and eyelids, as he himself did. He hoped some day to see a white man, and trade something for some arrow points or knives of iron or—better still—horses.
Whether or not he wanted a Fire Stick, he was still not sure. The one against his fingertips did not seem as evil as his brother had said. It wasn’t waking up or barking fire. It was not alive. Still, it must have strong magic, or the enemy warrior would not guard it so closely. If ever he found out he could master such magic without offending the spirits, Shaggy Hump would obtain his own Fire Stick, but now it was better to let this one lie.
He stood again over his enemies, who were lost so stupidly in the false peace of sleep. He tucked the iron knife under his belt. He drew the lone arrow from his quiver. He began to draw it slowly from the quiver, bit by bit.
The barbed war point had been chipped thin and flaked to a fine edge by Wounded Bear, a maker of fine arrows, though he had been almost blind. This particular point had missed its target in a fight during the last Moon of Falling Leaves and had struck a rock, breaking the tip off. Shaggy Hump had plenty of arrows, and didn’t mind leaving this one here.
Once clear of the quiver, he put the sharp point of the arrow against the earth, between the heads of the two Raiders. Using his weight, he leaned upon the shaft of this arrow with a silent and grueling deliberation, pushing the point past one grain of soil, then the next, then the next. Finally the point was sunk deep enough to make the arrow shaft stand against the wind. It would greet the enemy warriors when they woke at dawn, and mock them for their youthful inability to make war.
He used even more care moving away than he had used approaching, for this was where a warrior of lesser skills would lose discipline. The moon-made shadow of the bluff was moving onto the enemy camp now, staying close against the heel of Shaggy Hump’s moccasin as he withdrew, step by purposeful step. He moved no faster than this shadow, arriving at last at the tree where he had tied his dead brother’s horse, now his.
He led this horse away at the same regimented pace, as if each step spanned the body of a sleeping foe whom he must not wake. He moved away so slowly that the horse cropped every blade of grass along the way as they went. Away … away … away … until he had gone far enough to mount, and ride back to the Burnt Meat People in victory and glory.
6
The Time of Great Change came in Shadow’s fourteenth summer. It started during the Moon of Thunder, when the True Humans rolled up the bottoms of their lodge covers to let the breezes cool their resting places. Shadow was lying naked on the soft cured side of an old buffalo robe in his tipi, looking out under the rolled-up hides at the small herd of grazing horses the Burnt Meat People owned. Beyond the horses, he could look far across the gray sage and short brown grass. A great distance to the west, he saw a purple thundercloud hanging in the sky, a curtain of blue rain slanting from it.
He wished that it might come the way of his camp, that the grass would green again and bring herds of elk, deer, or antelope—maybe even buffalo. He knew he would be taking his first hunt soon, and the things he wanted to kill for meat numbered plenty. Yet, there was no hunger now in his camp, for the roots of the yampa vine
were easily dug, and much meat had been dried. Also, small animals were plentiful here and tasted good enough.
He was chewing a piece of bread made from the crushed seeds of lamb’s-quarters and sunflowers. His father’s second wife, Looks Away, had made this bread and flavored it well with berries. Shadow loved Looks Away almost as much as his own mother, for they were both kind to him, though Looks Away sometimes scolded him.
As he ate, he listened to his father tell the story of the time he followed the Northern Raiders who had attacked the Burnt Meat People, and of how he had ridden home with the fresh scalp of the enemy who had stolen his brother’s horse. Shadow remembered his uncle well, and knew his father did, also, though Black Horn’s name was not mentioned in the story. To speak it might bring ghosts out with the moon.
“Do you remember the scalp dance we held when I returned, my son?” Shaggy Hump said.
“Yes, Father. It was a good one.”
The warrior waved his hand modestly. “It was just a little one. Only one scalp. You have yet to see a really good scalp dance.”
“Why did you not kill more Raiders that time, Father? You have said that you might have killed them all, because they slept so soundly.”
“That is true, but I must do as my guardian spirits instruct me in my dreams and in the visions I seek before battle. I was told to kill only one Raider, count only one battle stroke, and take only one scalp. To have killed more would have displeased the spirits and destroyed my medicine.”