Chance's Bluff

by Catherine McGreevy

  Unholstering the revolver, he selected a fat cow trotting with her calf somewhat apart from the others. The thick mane had a reddish tinge, and her long beard nearly trailed in the dirt. Up close, his heart started beating faster. He had killed in battle, of course, but never had he hunted, especially not such a large and powerful beast. He steadied himself, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

  A puff of dust rose from the matted shoulder, but the result was not what he expected. Instead of continuing to trot stupidly forward like the bull, the animal whirled, and her small eyes reddened with anger. She lowered her massive head and lunged at Ben.

  The mad slash of her horns caught him by surprise and hooked his mount with a force that sent Ben sailing from his saddle. The fall knocked the wind from his lungs. With a sinking feeling, Ben realized the precious revolver lay somewhere under the horde of trampling hooves. The wounded cow turned and was galloping toward him full speed, small eyes ablaze with fury.

  There was no place for refuge. Ben said a quick prayer and prepared himself for the worst.

  A spot of red appeared on the thick brown coat, and the buffalo stopped. She turned her heavy head, as if searching for the new attacker. A second shot struck her, and another, like pebbles striking a cliff. With each impact, she turned around, spinning in furious circles like a dog chasing its tail. Ben saw that Two Feathers, the youngest of the band, had snatched up the pistol and was aiming it at the buffalo. The youth’s long black braids swung like whips as he brandished the pistol with both hands, grinning, as confident as if he had used such a weapon all his life.

  The chamber clicked uselessly. Unfazed, Two Feathers tucked the empty pistol into the waistband of his breechclout and goaded his mount directly toward the wounded buffalo, whooping at the top of his lungs and waving his arms in the air like a madman. The cow took a couple of unsteady steps toward the youth, then, looking puzzled, collapsed.

  Ben belatedly remembered his horse. He ran toward the bay, which was lying on the ground, its side opened up by the slash of the horn, coat glistening with blood. It rolled over and attempted to struggle to its feet, snorting. “Easy there. Easy!” Running his hands over the horse’s quivering side, Ben noted with relief that the laceration looked clean and superficial. No broken bones, no damaged organs. With luck, the wound would heal, if he could sufficiently clean it and allow the horse to rest. He offered it a drink of water from his gourd, then unfastened the saddle. The horse awkwardly scrambled to its feet, blowing loudly through its nostrils, while Ben berated himself for nearly killing his mount and ruining the hunt.

  One or two Indians gave chase to a few more of the beasts, apparently more for fun than with the intent of bringing down any more of them down, then circled back. There would be plenty of time to hunt tomorrow.

  The other Nez Perce had already begun butchering the five buffalo lying on the ground. Two Feathers looked up from the cow’s carcass, grinning at Ben. He appeared to be gloating that he, the youngest and least experienced, had saved the white man from an ignominious death. The shining Colt was still tucked securely in the waistband against his flat belly.

  Ben hesitated, torn between gratitude, sheepishness, and annoyance, before holding out a hand. “My pistol, please.”

  The boy nodded and patted his waistband. “My pistol.”

  Ben felt a flare of anger. He possessed two weapons: the carbine, which he had bought off an infantryman before heading west, and the expensive new Colt. He liked the Colt better. It was quick to use, reliable, and the carved grip fit into his hand as if custom-molded.

  “No bullets,” he said, pointing to the pistol.

  Two Feathers’s shoulders drooped. Spotted Eagle, who had been wielding a skinning knife with unerring skill, paused. His normally enigmatic features showed lines of amusement. “We trade with storekeepers,” the older Indian said, gesturing toward Two Feathers with a long strip of bloody meat. “They give many bullets for buffalo tongue.”

  Ben bit back an oath. Certainly his life was worth a pistol. It was hardly seemly to argue with the terms of the trade. Besides, maybe he could win the handgun back later, he thought hopefully. Somewhere he’d heard that Indians were notoriously fond of gambling. Maybe by devising some sort of competition, he could gain it back fair and square. At any rate, there was no point in making a fuss about it now. Taking out his bowie knife, he squatted to help with the butchering.

  Together, the men cut out the rest of the buffaloes’ tongues and sliced off the humps, which Spotted Eagle told him were a delicacy, but when the Indians passed around strips of raw liver, Ben turned away with disgust. The others chortled and divided his portion among themselves.

  The bulk of the meat they cut into strips to dry on racks, saving the skin as well as the bones, sinews, and horns, which, his new companions explained with eloquent gestures, would be used to make arrowheads, bowstrings, and drinking cups. Even the bladder would serve a container for water. Ben watched intrigued, absorbing it all.

  If the Nez Perce had been Plains Indians, he learned, the whole village would have been there to help with the butchering. But this small group of Mountain Indians had been sent to supplement the village’s usual diet of camas roots and salmon. Later, Spotted Eagle and his small group would return to their home on the other side of the Bitterroot Mountains carrying as much dried buffalo meat as their pack horses could carry.

  The men roasted fresh steaks over a campfire that night, and Ben dug in with good appetite. The tender meat tasted as flavorful as the finest beef in any New York restaurant, and he reached hungrily for another piece, eating with his fingers like the others.

  The next day, Ben redeemed himself by bringing down a straggling bull with the first powerful shot of his old carbine. This time, he made sure to shoot from a safe distance at the small bunch that lagged behind the main herd. Two Feathers watched the carbine with covetous eyes, but Ben made sure to keep a firm grip on his weapon.

  By the end of the week, when helping with the skinning, his strokes nearly matched the others’ in skill. Working side by side with the other men, with the Montana sun pouring down on his shoulders, he felt a sense of satisfaction stronger than any he had experienced before. This was the life he had been seeking, Ben thought—not being cooped up in a stuffy university classroom, or standing behind a counter in one of his father’s dry goods stores. He had never felt more alive than now, sweat-drenched, his muscles aching, wielding a knife slippery with fresh blood. True, the work was hard, but it was honest. The food they were preparing would feed many others over the next winter. What could be more satisfying? What could be more important or a better use of his time?

  Ben glanced around at his companions, red to the armpits with blood from the kill. They talked easily in the way of old friends, interrupting their work occasionally with guffaws of belly laughter at shared jokes. He wondered what they were laughing at. His clumsy attempts to speak their language? His ill-fated first attempt at buffalo hunting? But the joking appeared to have nothing to do with him, after all, for without warning Two Feathers’s smile suddenly disappeared and he lunged at a broad-shouldered, heavy-set Indian called Lame Bear. The latter waited until the youth was an arm’s length away, then calmly batted him down, like a grizzly swatting a cub.

  The adolescent went rolling head over heels and sprang to his feet, a look of fury contorting his smooth-skinned face. His hand flew to the new revolver in his waistband. Then, as the others laughed at him, his expression slowly changed to a sheepish grin. Shrugging, he dusted off his leggings, picked up his skinning knife, and went back to work. Peace restored, Lame Bear leisurely finished his task, then ambled off to inspect the drying racks.

  Ben thought with surprise these men were not the noble savages he had read about in the pages of Rousseau, nor the filthy, cruel savages depicted in sensationalistic penny dreadful novels. They were not like any other men he had known. He wondered at the fact that, dispossessed of much of their ancestral land and under pressure t
o turn from their old customs, and with every reason to distrust him, this group had accepted his overtures of friendship and welcomed him into their midst.

  The sight of the handle of the Colt sticking out from Two Feathers’s waistband, however, caused his feeling of generous approval to waver.

  From the beginning, the lad with the puckish sense of humor took a special interest in the white man. Perhaps out of pride in having been the one to save his life, Two Feathers delighted in tormenting Ben with jests and games, while Spotted Eagle and the others looked on with tolerant contempt.

  Ben did his best to accept the petty harassment. The lad had, after all, saved his life, he reminded himself yet again. But when he woke up one morning with an odd tickling in his breeches and discovered a horned toad crawling determinedly toward his crotch, he roared, tossed aside his bedroll, and tackled the chortling youth.

  They rolled in the dirt, arms and legs flailing, but the wiry adolescent was too spry to pin down, and Ben finally gave up, panting. Two Feathers danced away, triumphantly holding the croaking toad aloft in one hand and the Colt in the other, the barrel sparkling tauntingly in the morning sun.

  Ben swore. Then, the humor of the situation dawned on him, and he pushed himself to his feet and whacked the dust off his breeches in surrender. He walked over to the young Indian and held out his hand. “Well done,” he admitted. “Pax.”

  Two Feathers gathered the words’ meanings. Grinning more widely, he squeezed Ben’s hand with bone-crunching strength belied by his slim build. The others gathered around, making sounds of approval. Spotted Eagle slapped them both on the back with a force that made them stagger, pleased they had made up.

  The incident did not mean the end of Two Feather’s practical jokes, but Ben no longer felt he was losing face in front of the others. Remembering a few tricks from his days at boarding school, he decided to pay the youth back in kind. When the young Indian awoke with an elaborate shaving-cream beard, the others howled until they wept. From then on, Ben was no longer a tolerated guest, but was accepted as one of them.

  As the small band spent long weeks crossing the Montana plains, their horses weighted down with a winter’s supply of dried buffalo meat, Spotted Eagle tutored Ben in the Nez Perce language and ways, including learning which other tribes were friends and which were enemies. Avoid the Blackfeet and Crow, he warned, but the Flatheads and Cayuses could be trusted. Spotted Eagle’s own mother was from another friendly tribe, the Pend d’Oreilles.

  When Ben’s comprehension increased sufficiently, Spotted Eagle told him about the tribe’s recent troubles. Gold had been discovered in the northern part of what was called by “Bostons,” their term for white men, the territory of Idaho. Thousands of miners were pouring onto the Nez Perces’ land, building towns in defiance of treaties, murdering natives and molesting their women, and plying Indians with whisky so they could not defend themselves.

  “You said there was a treaty against such actions,” Ben said, upset at the news. “Why didn’t you ask the American officials to protect you?”

  “They do nothing.” Spotted Eagle curled his lip with disgust. “All their promises are lies.”

  Ben knew if he hadn’t lived and hunted with the Indians these past two months, his sympathies would have been with the white settlers. He considered this soberly, looking into the fire.

  A heavy silence settled over the group. “We still have our valley.” Two Feathers said at last. “No outsiders bother us there.”

  “For how long?” Lame Bear said grimly. “Someday whites will come, as they did to our brothers’ villages.”

  “Then we will fight,” Two Feathers said flatly. All signs of humor left his smooth young face. “Remember the prophecy: one day, the Bostons will leave, and things will return to the way they were before.”

  Spotted Eagle’s features hardened. “I do not believe in foolish dreams. If there is a war, our people will lose.”

  Two Feathers said contemptuously, “Your heart is that of a woman. If we do not fight, we will lose like cowards.”

  Spotted Eagle looked as if he were about to strike the young hunter, but unexpectedly, Lame Bear spoke up. “I too am a Dreamer. I have had a vision of the old ways. If it comes to war, I will fight to the death.” He held up his bow, made of the straightened horns of a mountain sheep held together with hardened deer sinew. With that bow, Ben had seen Lame Bear whip a three-foot arrow through a bounding elk at a hundred paces.

  Spotted Eagle glanced at Ben, as if uncomfortable. “We have right on our side,” he acknowledged. “But the Bostons have more guns and more people. There is nothing we can do to stop them from coming.”

  The group lapsed into gloomy silence. Ben said nothing, although he noticed Lame Bear shot him a resentful look.

  The band’s spirits lifted when after another day’s journey, they saw puffs of white smoke drifting above a line of hills dotted with tall lodge pole pines. The horses found new energy, and a few of the hunters cantered ahead, whooping and yelling.

  Spotted Eagle stayed behind with Ben. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “Our tribe not bad Indians, like Blackfeet.”

  In spite of the words, Ben doubted that he would be welcomed with open arms. More likely the villagers would view him with suspicion. Then he realized Spotted Eagle was studying him, frowning. Ben looked down at his clothes. “What’s wrong?”

  The old uniform jacket and breeches were worn white at the elbows and knees, and the brass buttons needed polishing, but otherwise the garments were still perfectly serviceable. Besides, many Indians wore “Bostons’” apparel these days: a felt hat, a pair of trousers, or a plaid shirt over their native clothing, so what he wore was not entirely out of place.

  Then Ben remembered what Lame Bear had said. “Dreamers” were natives who kept their old ways in the belief that one day they would overthrow the “Bostons” and restore everything to how it had been. On the plains, Ben’s clothes hadn’t mattered, but in the village, perhaps there may be some who, like the burly Indian, would consider them symbols of oppression.

  Spotted Eagle shrugged, however, and rode ahead without answering. Ben looked down at his uniform again, frowning, and urged his horse to follow.

  As they entered the village, Ben looked around curiously at the unfamiliar sights. Wooden lodges with low walls covered with woven reed mats were scattered among teepees, all the dwellings erected in a large circle near a clear stream. Women with long black braids, wearing doeskin dresses, looked up from the roots they were pounding, while Spotted Eagle swung off his horse and ducked inside one of the lodges. He emerged a moment later accompanied by a tall man with white hair hanging over sloping shoulders and intelligent, curious eyes in a long, craggy face.

  “Grizzly Robe,” Spotted Eagle told Ben. “One of our chiefs.”

  Wrapped in a striped Hudson blanket, the old man studied Ben, then extended a hand in the “Bostons’” manner.

  Shaking it, Ben mumbled a greeting in hard-won Nez Perce. The chief, looking pleased, rapidly broke into his native tongue. Ben struggled to keep up while Grizzly Robe recounted the story of how as a child he had met a pair of white men sent by the Great White Father, and how he and the tribe had felt friendship for them ever since. Ben realized the two men must have been the explorers sent long ago by President Thomas Jefferson to chart the West: Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. The chief obviously considered that event as being important in his tribe’s history.

  However, Grizzly Robe told Ben, his face growing somber, relations between the two peoples had grown strained the past few years. “It is good that you stay with us,” the old man said, gazing into Ben’s eyes. “When you go back to your people, maybe they will listen to you.”

  Ben nodded, although he was doubtful. Who would listen to him? His parents knew influential people, but Ben knew he would likely never speak to the two again, even in the unlikely event they would agree to help.

  He watched with a touch of melancholy w
hile the old man disappeared back into his lodge. Then Ben spotted Two Feathers in the midst of a group of young braves, passing around the shining Colt, face beaming with proprietary pride, and a new twinge of anger passed through him. The young Indian said something to his companions, who turned to look at Ben with broad grins. Sourly, Ben turned his back on them.

  Feeling abandoned, he was wondering what to do when a group of small children clustered around him. They looked up with wide eyes, tittering, while some boldly fingered his clothing. He was trying to think of something to say to them when a young woman shooed the flock away and tugged at his arm, smiling. “Come. This way.”

  Something about the girl’s almond-shaped eyes looked familiar. Curious, he allowed her to push him through the opening of another squat-walled lodge, whose floor dropped away unexpectedly. He fell heavily, bruising his knees, and scrambled to his feet, trying to win back his dignity. The floor had been dug below ground level, and now he realized why the walls had looked unusually short from the outside. The dwelling’s spacious interior and roof were covered with the same woven reed mats he had observed covering the chief’s dwelling, and with buffalo skins as well.

  Brushing off his clothing, he eyed the girl suspiciously. Laughing, she motioned him to sit on a buffalo robe, and he obeyed, noting in the back of his mind how orderly everything appeared. Weapons, tools, and baskets hung on the walls, and the pleasant scent of burning sage rose from an earthen altar in the center of the floor. Rubbing his bruised leg, he wondered what was to happen next.

  The girl removed something from a closely woven basket and approached with the folded object in her arm, rattling off a string of words spoken too quickly for him to follow.

  “Please, no,” he interrupted. “Not so … er … fast.”

  A patient look appeared on her face. With overly elaborate slowness, she mouthed, “Wear … this.”

  He looked at the objects she was holding: a deerskin shirt, trimmed with beads; a breechclout and leather pants; and rabbit-fur leggings. Spotted Eagle must have told her to provide them. Well, why not? His old blue uniform jacket was caked with dirt, and his boots were about to fall apart. If he was going to live with the Indians, he may as well dress like them. Perhaps, then, the tribe would accept him more easily. Wasn’t this part of the adventure he sought?