When they lay again between the robes, bodies curled back to back, Caspion felt her press to him, sharing her warmth. And Moneva slept clutching the memory of the song. But Caspion lay awake for a time, enrapt by her presence and the lingering moment; he’d experienced pleasures and thrills, terror, flight, and wonder, depravation and relief—yet he’d never known such happiness in all his life. A feeling shadowed by fear: the dread of its loss. As Caspion closed his eyes, he heard Callus’s deep voice surface across the years with a jocular admonishment to the hot-blooded youth anxious to learn a hundred songs before the next sunrise, as if songs could shield him from battle and death: “Bo’, yo’ fussin’ fo’ moonshine. Now lissen hair, dis larnin’ takes taim. Soons yo’ hab it all, den what? Huh? Sho-nuff, yo’ wants de moon wid a fence built ’round.” Caspion had laughed, answering: “No Callus, not the moon. But I do want the true beauty that hides her vision on the dark side that no man has ever seen.” Callus had slowly rubbed his whiskered chin. “Umm-humm,” he finally allowed, moanfully; “S’pect so,” nodding his head; “Yessa, yo’ be de debil’s own chil’, Casp’un. Lak’ly yo’ gwin fin’ dis gal one day…fin’ her an’ dat moonshine too. Pos’ble an’ mos’ lak’ly…”
During the night the wind shifted from the north and blew from the southwest, altering the white dune terrain. Through the swirling snow, drifts leveled, others formed, as the wind gouged the land, opening old wounds. In the hidden ravine the mounted warrior soon reappeared, his head and shoulders eerily cresting the white tide. Wolves circled, wary of the man-scent carried in the warm air as they slowly approached the frozen form. The lead wolf extended his nose to the unblinking eyes and sniffed; witnessing death, he howled his judgment to the pack. Soon all converged and the rider twitched alive with movement as they tore at his blanket, hair, and flesh, burrowing their muzzles and snarling fangs, ripping at the corpse and one another, all digging deeper in the snow to uncover the cache. Wind, moon, stars faded; morning found them well into the feast, noisily gnawing the remnant bones.
Moneva and Caspion awoke, their limbs partly entwined; in an awkward moment they separated, shedding the intimacy their bodies had sought in the night. Rolling out, each immediately sought a task; Moneva tending to the fire, while Caspion went to check on horse and mule. A bright clear day, warm air fresh with a gentle breeze and silver trickles of melting snow. Their silence held as they ate their meal, seated safely opposite with the fire between. When finished, Caspion let her know by sign and deed that he meant to break camp that morning and travel along the ridge of hills heading southeast. With the storm ended, he reasoned her captors were bound to come hunting; and others might seek the lost one who’d called for her. He wanted the evidence of the camp and the trail of his leaving to vanish with the melting snow. And he told her now as best he could with mix of word and sign that she was free to go; she could take the mule if she wished. Or, she could come with him. Moneva placed one hand to her heart and crossed the other to his and spoke their names. Her choice pleased him greatly, while his smile aroused the itch of his whiskers. A week’s dark growth covered his face.
After heating water, he soaped his beard. Moneva watched with keen interest as he stropped the razor and began to shave. Sans mirror, he winced at the occasional nick. The act amused her—him scraping his own fur—but the result pleased her more. She touched her hand to the smoothness of his face, expressing her approval in Cheyenne; then gave his lip-hair a questioning tug. At which he shook his head no!—insisting the mustache would stay. Not so bad, she thought, the lip-hair, strange but appealing.
Using cedar branches, they swept the area as best they could. Again, Moneva watched closely to learn his routine for breaking camp. He folded the lean-to, rolled up the bedding, and in short order had Stump loaded down and Two-Jacks saddled to leave. And she was truly shocked but honored when he lifted her to the saddle, for he gave a warrior’s trust and bade her ride. Caspion pointed to the ridge east and slapped Two-Jacks’ flank. Moneva rode ahead accompanied by Ho’ne and Stump while he swept the trail behind.
High winds had nearly stripped the uplands of snow, and upon gaining the ridge, Caspion tossed the cedar branch aside. What tracks they made from hereon would melt within the hour. Taking hold of the reins, he glanced into the saddle of the hills where he’d found her—a gift of chance or cruel Providence—tattered, wounded, as if cast from the storm and granted a bloody rebirth. Further west he glimpsed evidence of a shadowing fate. Ravens circled in the distance, waiting their turn to feed. Caspion quietly stepped out, leading Two-Jacks and hoping Moneva hadn’t seen.
But her eyes were fixed east, Ho shin, intent on a new trail and Ho’ne trotting happily at point. Three days after being thrown on the prairie, she was headed deeper into another world, an opposite world inhabited by the Spirit Hunter, where many things besides the loincloth were reversed: he saddled his pony and mounted from the other side, prepared food and broke camp like a squaw, and went afoot while a woman rode. He even grew fur on his face then skinned it off. And his black hair that swept in white streaks past his ears presented a contrast as sharply drawn as an eagle. A great Contrary, he seemed so strange at times she had to remind herself that he was flesh.
The bright mantle of the whitened land burned her eyes and she sought relief in the blue sky space. And gazing there, she thought of his name, while through the beckoning expanse she spied an eagle soaring on the wind.
XXI. The Aftermath
When Wears The Wind and Falling Shadow returned shortly before sundown that fateful eve, Running Hawk had already ridden out to seek the Dog. The exiles were welcomed back with open arms. Their elopement had been a mere breach of form, easily forgiven with passing time—especially since they carried with them the promise of new life, offering a propitious atonement for the ruthless murder all had just witnessed. At the moment Awoke In Winter was being wrapped in his burial robe, the Dog fell in his death throes. Blood avenged and black grief blanketed by the snow.
The wind blew still colder, the night darkened, the air was foul with stench of crime and foolish water; the heart of the People torn, their essential harmony and very survival threatened. And all knew, while watching White Deer lead Black Hand to their lodge, that the old Chief was lost. In their despair the People turned, strangely enough, to Wears the Wind, for he was a true and vigorous warrior, Running Hawk’s faithful friend, and as husband of the Chief’s daughter, a traditional inheritor of authority.
So they stood with him and Sweet Medicine when the Dog’s pack rode into camp, hounded the shameful defilers and sent them yelping into the night. Many then joined in the search for Running Hawk and Broken Wing Bird, trampling the Dog under angry hooves. But sadly, the blizzard soon forced all back, ending their search. That night Wears The Wind and Sweet Medicine placed the bundled corpse of their Honored Elder in the crook of a tree on the high bluff overlooking the camp. From thereafter this spot was known as “The Hill Where the Old One Watches.” Above the corpse they hung his Dream Shield with the turtle painted center, circled by feathers of the Great Heron—the spirits’ cry of alarm, vigil of the People.
Through three days they huddled in a long night of silence, fearful the blizzard would never end, that Maiyun had vacated the land, abandoning them to the cold, the north, and death. No lodge, no robe was truly warm, for the tribal soul had been rent; murder rendered all naked. None felt the curse more deeply than Sweet Medicine, recalling that his namesake, Motsiiuiv, the one of legend, who’d taught the People their sacred rituals and beliefs, had also prophesied that one day men with white skins and hairy faces would come offering gifts that shined like mica to flatter their vanity and thunder-voiced weapons that killed with frightful ease and a fiery drink that would fever their minds; and he warned them not to accept these gifts, to never trade for the stranger’s new wealth, else the buffalo vanish and the People in one generation be driven from the land. Sweet Medicine, pondering this and all that Awoke In Winter had taught him o
f the sacred way, vowed to learn more, to seek knowledge and preserve the People.
With this vow he pledged the Arrow Renewal. The Four Sacred Arrows, bestowed in ancient times to bring success in the hunt and war, were the symbol of tribal unity, and following a murder it was essential that they be ritually cleansed to appease the Maiyun. For the Arrows were now tainted and must be purified or the game would leave the land and bad luck would stalk the People like wolves culling the weak. The Arrow Keeper, an old friend of Awoke In Winter, lived in a nearby camp of the Fox Soldier band. Sweet Medicine would go to him and request the ceremony. He would learn from the Arrow Keeper as he had learned from Awoke In Winter, learn in the fervent hope of preserving the People. For he, a scout, the eyes and ears of the People, would give his life, stake himself as a warrior, torture his flesh in the Sun Dance again each season to deter the prophecy and delay the evil. But first, before meeting with the Arrow Keeper, he would accompany Wears The Wind to discover whether Running Hawk, his most esteemed teacher and whom he loved above all, yet lived.
For his own part, Wears The Wind, having shed the loneliness of exile, now faced a grave burden—an unwelcome one that he would not accede to until he knew Running Hawk’s fate. He judged his friend far more worthy of being Chief. And he desperately hoped that Running Hawk lived; others had survived such blizzards wrapped in a buffalo carcass or the belly of their horse. So on the third morning, when the storm ended and the sky cleared, Wears The Wind and Sweet Medicine rode north. But though the air steadily warmed, their hope grew faint. Early on, they discerned vultures circling to the northwest. Both dreaded what lay ahead.
By mid-day they arrived at the scene. Wolves and ravens fled at the sight of man. Vultures perched in trees along the river, waiting their chance to feed. Along with Cloud Walker’s half eaten corpse, they found the red blanket, a shredded moccasin, parts of a legging and various bones strewn about; all else had been consumed or carried off and cached. And while they did find an elk-tooth necklace like that worn by Broken Wing Bird, there was no Thunder Bow or other identifying accouterments, as Running Hawk had ridden out weaponless except for the avenging knife. Perhaps he’d entered the ravine seeking shelter from the blizzard, and lulled there by the false warmth shortly froze to death—trapped, buried by the snow. It was even possible he’d found his beloved and they’d shared their fate; for there was nothing to distinguish one corpse from two, and aside from the necklace there was no other evidence of her along the way. And she could neither have vanished nor outdistanced Running Hawk. So the tale related by the scouts upon their return and the story told around campfires was that the lovers had embraced in death and been consumed by wolves.
Wears The Wind and Sweet Medicine knelt above the ravine, shedding tears as they sang the death-song: “Ho ah haih! Heammawihio, Great Spirit Making Maker…hear our song! We beseech you embrace the lovers whom we loved…carry them home to Seyan! Ho ah haih ho! Let us never forget their virtue and courage! Ho ah haih…!” And Sweet Medicine, the lover’s trusted messenger, felt no shame for his part in their tragedy, only greater sorrow at their brief happiness. Nor in the end had Awoke In Winter dissuaded such love—rather hold your hand to the moon and bid it cease to shine.
A freshet of melting snow rushed beneath the surface, hollowing a path through the ravine. Cloud Walker’s emptied corpse soon collapsed upon its legs and lay like a raw cupped hand supplicant to the sky. Wears The Wind and Sweet Medicine mounted up, leaving all undisturbed as they rode away. With the grief that gripped their hearts, they took solace knowing that the great warrior-scout and his beloved had been scattered over the prairie by the wolves—a blessing from the Maiyun. As Running Hawk had sought vengeance, his beloved and death with honor, he was honored by the wolves. For scout and wolf are ever one, calling across the night, they share many mysteries and are known by one word in the language of the People—“Ho’ne.”
Warm weather followed the early blizzard with a complete thaw; days and nights were pleasantly warm. Approaching the Moon of the Freezing Water, there was unusual movement among the Cheyenne—a great gathering planned to occur northwest of the Darlington Agency. The Territory was soon rife with rumors of an uprising.
Messages sped between Darlington and Anadarko. The army grew concerned; couriers dashed out of Fort Sill and Camp Supply. Commanders were anxious to learn “What in God’s name was happening.” Even Muldarrin, normally cool-headed, grew edgy, and was not wholly convinced by Cupé’s wry and perfunctory account concerning a double-murder over a beautiful maiden who then perished with her lover in the blizzard—“Et maintenant,” he’d explained, “the Cheyenne…they gather to clean les Arrows.” And while Amos Chapman carried word from Agent Miles confirming much the same, it all seemed too feigned by half. What would cleaning arrows have to do with anything but preparations for the warpath? He wished the hell Caspion would appear with a less cryptic explanation.
As it was, Regional Command and many of his fellow officers were clamoring for action: “Disperse the Indians now before they organize with grave consequences” was the prevailing opinion. So Muldarrin—never one to be frightened by pounding drums and devil’s masks, but already under fire for espousing a more enlightened, even-handed policy—compromised. He left the firebrands most eager for a fight in charge of Camp Supply, then headed south with half his command to establish a position forward of the Cheyenne encampment to closely observe the activity therein and confront any hostile movement north.
While Muldarrin was hesitant at first to let Lieutenant Hastings range beyond view, the young officer soon gained his confidence, exercising cool judgment and restraint in patrolling the northern periphery. And he further proved his worth when he calmly rode forth with Cupé to receive the Cheyenne envoy, which duty he performed with admirable assurance and tact. Reporting back to his commander, the lieutenant offered the opinion that the threat had all been imagined. Cupé looked on with a bemused smile as Muldarrin quietly concurred. The matter so clarified, the crisis dissolved. And after four days the Cheyenne dispersed of their own accord, just as Cupé and Amos had initially declared. With the Arrows renewed the Council approved the nomination of a new chief, a young warrior named Wears The Wind, to head one of the Dog Soldier bands.
As Cupé explained, the old chief was left in a crazed stupor—”Massa’ne…il est bête…”—over the beautiful maiden lost in the blizzard. So a timeless tale proved true once more. And while Muldarrin reflected on this with a twinge of sadness, he felt great relief returning north to Camp Supply, and in musing he drew ironic parallel to the Iliad: if beautiful Helen and her abductor Paris had drowned at sea in their escape, there would have been no Trojan War, no ten years of carnage. Perhaps the Cheyenne lovers’ tragic end would presage ten years of peace, enough time to turn the South Plains Indians to the White Man’s way.
But his optimism was not shared by his fellow officers; although Lieutenant Hastings spoke in his defense, most feared that their commander lacked the stomach to smash the Indian, that his feral friend Caspion had convinced him that the savage and buffalo were inherently equal to the hardy settlers desperate to plow the prairie and feed a growing nation. Their disgruntlement only deepened with disappointment, for they’d expected the event to precipitate war. But in a situation bristling with misunderstanding and greed, opportunists and criminals, their bloodlust would not be long denied. Such was manifest; such was destiny
Others watched and took timely advantage, loosed their predations at will. With fortune’s smile horse thieves struck; allied in ruthless enterprise the Martin and Krippit gangs made lightning raids on herds left thinly guarded at the scattered winter camps during the four-day ceremony. The stolen ponies were hastily driven north beyond the Territory and sold. Protests from the Indians were answered with the customary shrug: “The matter will be dealt with in due time; return to your villages, restrain your warriors, preserve the peace.” The doors of justice slammed closed.
Although none
of the outlaws were pursued or apprehended, their presence and movements were on occasion observed: where they crossed the Canadian and Cimarron, what trails they followed north and south, where they camped and cached supplies—all carefully marked on Caspion’s map. In the journal he noted their number, weapons, and routine, adding physical descriptions whenever discerned. And he soon discovered that the outlaws, as suspected, often wore the guise of the Indian to cloak their intent and origin, and in the present case to infiltrate the Territory. It was Moneva who drew his attention to the ruse. One day from a high ridge over-looking the Canadian, they saw what appeared to be a hunting party dismounting by the river; she pointed and anxiously shook her head, whispering: “Veho! Veho!” Then she ran to Two-Jacks and promptly demonstrated her meaning: Indians mount from the left; Vehos mount from the right. And in a short while when the supposed hunting party prepared to ford the river, all mounted from the Veho side. White men. Another item jotted down.
Moneva quickly grasped the meaning of the map, a picture symbol of land and water; but written words wove chaotic patterns that resembled nothing in the world she had ever seen. When Caspion said her name and wrote it in the journal, she could not perceive a woman in the symbol he made. She gazed at him intently; he treated her with kindness and respect and she had no fear of him, but she wondered if the flesh was not his disguise. She knew he was stalking these men, but why, she could not fathom. Did he mean to trap their souls? She was curious to see. And her certainty grew that the Spirit Hunter occupied a middle world opposite all others.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 25