by Jory Sherman
It was a great honor for Red Tomahawk to go with his father as a scout for the tribe. It was good to live in the old way, far from the white man's fort on the river and away from the bad talk in camp. But, there was hunger among the Oglalas and none of the scouts going out in all directions had seen the herd nor heard the earth tremble.
Two days later, the boy put his ear to the ground and heard the thunder.
Buffalo!
CHAPTER NINE
The little rolling hills were black with the great herd of buffalo. They seemed like a giant shadow on the earth, moving gradually like a vine growing on stone.
Red Tomahawk made his smoke from the knoll where his pony grazed, looked back of him at the camp going up, the people like ants swarming, carrying sticks, pointing them at the sky in cones that made skeletal circles on the earth. And he saw the other scouts making their smokes and he felt proud that he was one of them, that he had sat before the councilors when Snow Wolf had told them of seeing the buffalo, of finding the life of the people at this place.
Magically, the circles of the village were formed and the boy heard the criers going through the camp singing that the knives were to be sharpened, the arrow tips honed to a fine cutting edge and the hunting horses brought in. He saw the people scattering as if a wind had surged through the lodges and blown them like autumn leaves across the bare patches of ground.
Soon, the people started streaming from the camp, the akicita leading them, riding in tight formation, flank to flank, so that no one could rush past them and frighten the herd. Behind the warrior society came the best hunters, leading their buffalo horses, and behind them, the women and children. At the rear of the walking people, more mounted warriors, guarding the weak against attack by Pawnee or Crow raiders.
Red Tomahawk stripped to breechclout and moccasins when he saw the hunters do the same below the hill. He hung his quiver of arrows from his sash, mounted his barebacked pony. The hunters split into two groups, riding their fine buffalo horses in half circles to surround the feeding herd. His chest swelled when he saw that Snow Wolf had been selected as one of the leaders by the headman of the council. His words floated to Red Tomahawk's ears.
"You are all good strong men. You do good work in the fighting and in the hunts. Today you will kill many buffalo to feed the old and the helpless. There are people here without sons or nephews, old ones with eyes blind as stones, women and little children without men. Whatever you kill will be the food for their mouths on this day. Go!"
Red Tomahawk knew this was a great honor for his father. He vowed he would kill many buffalo for his own family, for Lady Walking Crow and Snow Wolf, so that they would be proud of him, so that they would not grow lean through the winter.
He watched, his belly full of butterflies, as the hunters circled the herd, and he rode down the knoll, out of sight of the women and youngsters with their sharpened knives, going slowly, raising no dust, making no noise to scare the buffalo.
Then, he heard Snow Wolf's cry of Hoka hey and saw the hunters charge from all directions, straight into the flanks of the herd.
The buffalo milled, tails straight up or whipping the air, and Tomahawk saw some drop with arrow shafts sticking from their lungs. He drew his bow, chased a shaggy bull with its tiny eyes buried under wooly curls. His pony ran up alongside and the young man looked straight down at the buffalo's hump, kneed the pony a little bit away and took aim on a spot just behind the ribs where he knew the heart and lungs were. He drew the bow tight, the string just right in front of his cheek and let his fingers go. The string twanged and the arrow struck the stomach of the bull.
He knew he had forgotten to allow for the deceptive speed of the animal, the forward rush, and had not lead the animal enough. The bull turned, angrily, bellowed with a hot breath and shook its shaggy head. Tomahawk grabbed at the quiver dangling from his sash and pulled another arrow from the quiver. He was shaking all over like the yellow leaves of aspen in the Black Hills and his stomach was filled with a great excitement, a fear that had no name.
This was his bull and he wanted it, but the animal knifed through a massive pack of lumbering animals and they all blurred together. A pair of buffalo jostled his pony and. his arrow did not nock. The roar of the herd rose up in his ears.
He saw Chalk Face chasing a cow and saw him shoot an arrow and miss.
Sweat streaked Tomahawk's face and the thick dust clogged his nostrils, the heavy scent of buffalo made him giddy. He nocked his arrow, took aim at a young bull romping alongside. He lead the beast this time and drove the arrow into its back at an angle. He saw the animal's forelegs crumble. The buffalo skidded forward, fell on its side. Its blue tongue jutted out from its mouth and it looked upward with glazed eyes.
Red Tomahawk shouted in triumph, drew another arrow from his quiver. Now, the fluttering in the belly had gone away and his skin tingled with the sensation that lightning causes when it strikes close and makes the air brittle, makes a sound like meat frying over a fire.
He heard the yelling, saw buffalo drop and the herd turn and scattered clumps streak away from the pack. He rode through them feeling big and powerful, yelling himself and hearing his shouts drowned in the thunder and the yells of the hunters.
Banded Eagle appeared out of a cloud of dust and Tomahawk saw a bull charge his friend's pony. Banded Eagle shot an arrow into its hump and then swung his pony away, nocked another arrow and fired it quickly into the animal's side. Again and again, Banded Eagle shot arrows into the bull until it bristled with feathered shafts and stopped, stock still. The buffalo shook itself with a rattle of arrows and then sank to its knees. It snorted, coughed, dropped its haunches. Then, it blew a mighty breath and rolled over on its side. It shook for several moments and then gave up its spirit.
"Yihoo, yihoo!" yelled Banded Eagle, and Red Tomahawk echoed the cry of triumph as he rode on past his friend, chasing hard on the rump of a bull that must have weighed more than four ponies.
He shot his arrow, saw it strike the hump and fly off as though it had struck iron.
The mighty bull raced on, showing no sign it had been struck.
Red Tomahawk put another arrow to his bow.
His pony's muscles bunched as it picked up speed. The big buffalo veered off to the left, away from the herd. Tomahawk followed, drew his arm back, bending his bow to the limit. The bull began to zigzag, pick up speed.
Tomahawk's arm muscles began to ache. His wrists trembled with the strain. The bull, its hide marked with spear and arrow tips, stopped, turned, began to run the other way. Its turn was tight, marvelous to behold.
Surprised, Tomahawk almost pitched from his pony's back as he instinctively applied knee pressure to turn it. The bull straightened out, headed back for the herd.
"Hiyeee, hiyee, hoooieeyo!" screeched Tomahawk, letting off the pressure on his bowstring. He wanted this bull. This bull's heart would make him strong. His face hardened with determination as his pony ate up the lost ground, drawing him ever closer to his quarry.
A yearling calf bawled, stumbled in front of Tomahawk's pony. He was almost unseated as he swerved to avoid a collision.
The herd scattered, with young boys chasing calves, old cows, screaming and yelling, firing arrows with spindly brown arms. As far as he could see, the plain was dotted with dead buffalo, the women busy filling their parfleches, crawling over carcasses with sharp knives, laughing and joking to be doing the good work.
Red Tomahawk killed another small bull as a bunch of cows ran off with the wise old bulls whose hides were marked by lance and arrow from previous hunts. Finally, tired but jubilant, he rode back to his kill and began to gut it out. Friends came by, waved to him, their faces shining with the happy light of a good hunt. He rolled the skin back from the meat and a clutch of boys descended on him, grabbing off pieces of flesh, chewing with tiny sharp teeth. He cut up the liver, slid a piece into his mouth, tossed chunks to the little boys and girls who came running up like cub bears to a honey hive.
Th
e setting sun smeared streaks of crimson in the western sky as Red Tomahawk finished up his butchering. Banded Eagle helped him lash the last bundle of flesh on the pack horse.
"Tonight, the wolves will come in," said Red Tomahawk.
"They'll find little for their bellies," laughed Banded Eagle. He had killed two cows and a small bull. Chalk Face had only killed a calf and was walking around shame-faced, helping the women. Pretty One had killed a big shaggy bull that had the marks of other hunts on his hide.
When they rode into camp the drying poles were already up.
Red Tomahawk and Banded Eagle threw the fresh meat on the leaves and shavings the women had left for them. Lady Walking Crow and two of Tomahawk's women cousins, Turtle Eye and Teal Foot, cut the meat into thin strips, draped them over the racks.
The hunting leaders went to the council lodge, Snow Wolf among them. They were honored by hordes of people who streamed there with little tidbits and chunks of the best meat. The hunters sang to the gift-givers as they laid the meat out before them.
The camp was aglow with roasting fires and the rich scent of the humps and ribs spitting juices into the air and onto the flames.
The drums sounded through the night as the people proclaimed their joy through good feasting and good talk. They sang special songs of thanks to the Great Spirit and to the members of the warrior society who had done their job so well. They sang to the good hunters who had put such abundance in their lodges and their hearts were as full as their bellies.
Red Tomahawk gave some of his meat to Chalk Face and his friend sang a song to him that no one else could hear. And Red Tomahawk sang a song to Curly, hoping he had been on a hunt as good as this one.
Much meat was given to the needy, and some of the warriors gave horses to those who could only walk.
And the stories of the hunt went round and round, were spoken of at the campfires and in the lodges.
Red Tomahawk walked through the camp and saw all the thin slabs of meat dripping from poles and thought how rich his people were this night.
The Oglala sang of their hunters and of the buffalo, knowing that tomorrow would bring the thieving magpies and the flies during the shaving of the hides, the rubbing of the tallow and brains into the scraped skin for curing.
Tomorrow, too, would be the time to start making new bows and arrows, spears and warclubs, for the enemies of the Lakota were always lurking about. They would need guns and powder, lead for making balls, and more horses. So, there were raids to look forward to, on the Pawnee and Crow, and perhaps a fight with the white soldiers if they came after the Lakota someday soon.
Red Tomahawk found himself walking beyond the camp alone, listening to the wolves snarling in the distance, fighting among themselves over scraps of meat. He looked at the glow in the sky, from many campfires and the winged silhouettes of the lodges against the silver flashes of stars, the half-nibbled moon. Out here, alone, the day seemed like a dream.
But he had been a man today and he knew he was ready to fight, whether it be against Crow, Pawnee, or white soldier. His arm was strong, his eye clear, his heart brave. He had given his family much meat and his father did not have to lie as did the father of Chalk Face.
There was a tang in the air and he breathed it in, tasted it like the bile on a knife tip, sweet and salty, sour and hot.
He knew this air, and smelled it before.
Winter was coming, soon, and this would be the first time in many moons that his people had wintered away from the white man's fort and his gifts of blankets and food.
He walked back to camp, knowing the lodges were strong and they would have buffalo robes for warmth, food they had taken for themselves off the old earth from where they had come long before the white man came into the land of the Lakotas.
CHAPTER TEN
Red Tomahawk listened to the talk in the Oglala camp during the Moon of Falling Leaves, November, and saw the relatives of Conquering Bear ride in and tell of restless braves in the Brule camp.
"Warriors are riding the Holy Road."
"Some of the Brules have painted for war."
"Spotted Tail, Conquering Bear's son, Long Chin, Red Leaf, go not against the Pawnee or Snake, but against the white man on the immigrant road."
This talk made all the young men restless and soon battle songs were being sung in the camp.
Red Tomahawk moped until his father spoke to him.
"Do not listen to this talk, these war songs. The Brules will bring still more trouble down upon the Lakota."
"The Brules have done nothing, but die first and strike back."
"Do not talk against my words," said Snow Wolf.
"Why does the white man's road still run through our lands?"
Snow Wolf turned away, unable, or unwilling, to answer.
His son left the lodge and went again to hear the Brules talk of warriors he had seen or knew and he wondered if Curly was restless, like he was, and nervous to take up the bow and warclub, ride in search of scalps.
It was told, one day, that Long Chin, Spotted Tail and the others had attacked a box wagon, in which the whites carried their papers with scratching signs on them, and killed two men, wounded another with an arrow in the leg. They had taken the scalps, smoked some of the papers and spent the hard shining metal at Bordeaux's stockade. The French traders were all long-faced that the braves had thrown away or smoked up the paper trading dollars and the Brules laughed because they did not know what the scratches on paper meant.
"No soldiers came after them."
That's what Red Tomahawk heard and he gloated over the power of his people. But he wondered why the white soldiers did not try and punish the Brules for the killing at Conquering Bear's camp, and he wondered if they were afraid now. He asked his father if the soldiers would give up the fort and go away.
"They will not go away, but will wait until they are many before doing anything about those soldiers that were killed."
"If they are many they cannot hurt us if we stay away from them. We can scatter like prairie chickens in the grasses."
"Maybe so. But, there are traitors, like old Tesson, and some of the weak Brules, who will turn their hearts to the white men and tell the soldier chiefs where we make our camps, where we hunt the buffalo. If the soldiers want to, they will come and we will have a hard time."
"We can kill them if they go far from the fort."
"No," said Snow Wolf sadly, "we do not fight their way. They leave their women and children far from the battle places and do not have to worry about protecting them or feeding them. The Lakota can only travel slowly, and we must make our women and children and old ones safe before we can make battle."
So Red Tomahawk listened to these things and wondered if Curly had been right when he said that there would be a big war between the whites and the Lakota. Yet, each moon that went by made him feel that the danger was past. No soldiers would come.
All during the winter, the Oglalas heard talk of the soldier fort and how no soldiers bothered those in the women's camp, nor rode along the Holy Road. It was said that they stayed to themselves and make the walking patterns and set off the cannon-gun at sunset, but did not hunt the Indians as they once did for sport.
Red Tomahawk went on raiding parties, riding with his young friends, to attack the Pawnee, They did fight as the warriors did and had to hide so they wouldn't be sent back to camp, but they learned much. Once, they saw some Crow sneaking up on the camp and gave warning so that no ponies were lost. For this, Red Tomahawk received much praise from his elders, but he did not strut nor act proud as did some of the others.
But one night, on pony herd, the Crow came back, sneaking through the darkness with knives and bows.
Red Tomahawk heard a hissing sound and saw his friend Chalk Face stagger. He lay still, listening to the gurgling sounds that Chalk Face made before he fell. And, then a Crow screamed in his ear and tried to cut the hobbles of two ponies. Red Tomahawk sounded the warning and warriors came from
the camp. There was much wild shooting of arrows, but the Crows did not lose a man and they took seven good horses from the herd.
When the trouble was over, Red Tomahawk remembered that Chalk Face had fallen. He went back to the place where his friend had been struck.
"Chalk Face," he called softly, searching the dark for movement, listening for breathing.
He saw the crumpled form of his friend, knelt beside him.
"Red Tomahawk," Chalk Face rasped, his voice like the rattle of hail on dry corn husks. "You come to see me die."
"I will call for a sling so that you can be carried to your lodge."
The wounded boy made a sound in his throat.
Red Tomahawk saw the arrow shaft sticking out of his friend's neck. Under the faint light of stars, he saw darker shadows where the arrow was embedded. He touched the place of the wound and his finger came back sticky with blood. He felt it pulsing out of Chalk's neck.
"It is a good night to die," said the boy. "The lights in the sky are bright as the thunder arrows."
"Yes. It is a good night to die."
"I have some good arrows in my lodge. They are made from the iron of the white traders. Under my blanket. My bow is good. Take it."
"I will call for the boys to come here and help me take you to your lodge."
"Push the arrow through. I can feel the tip of the flint."
"You might give up your spirit fast."
"I feel only that little pain up there. My breath is short. There is a heavy weight on my chest. Will you say to Curly that I died brave?"
"I will tell him that."
"He will be a great warrior some day."
"You will go to the sky. So will he."
"I wonder that I have a voice. It does not seem like my voice. The arrow feels funny in my neck."
Red Tomahawk wanted to break it off or push it through, but he could still feel the blood gush out in little pulses. He had a feeling that Chalk Face would die very fast if he pushed the arrow on through. The chipped flint would only cut and slash, make a bigger wound.