Daughter of the Eagle (9 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: Daughter of the Eagle
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Black Fox had
been uneasy since the beginning of the raiding party. Things had gone too well. He and Sitting Bear, slightly older than he, had organized the raid.
They would take a handful of aspiring young Head Splitters into the country of the Elk-dog People to gain experience. There would be an opportunity to steal a few good horses, perhaps kidnap a young woman or two. There might even be a skirmish, a chance for the best and boldest of the novices to count their first honors in battle.
And things had gone well under the experienced guidance of Sitting Bear. The war party had located the summer camp of the enemy without difficulty. It had been almost too simple to carry out the raid on the horse herd. It had been a thing of great amusement to see the terror-struck youths who guarded the herd scramble in panic before the raiders. It had been almost too easy.
Then they had encountered the small hunting party. These had been more experienced young warriors. They had fought bravely. The Head Splitters had sustained wounds
but had defeated the outnumbered hunters very quickly. One survivor had been allowed to escape to carry the tale of Head Splitter victory.
The raiding party had continued homeward, driving the stolen herd, now expanded with the mounts of the slain hunters. It had been at this point that Black Fox began to be more seriously concerned.
He could not exactly define his anxiety. It was a subtle thing, an undefined feeling. Everything had gone so smoothly, so easily. The young warriors joked and laughed as they rode, now confident and boastful after their brief baptism of battle. Perhaps that was what concerned Black Fox. The youths were too confident.
He glanced across to the leader of the party, to see if he felt the uneasiness, too. Sitting Bear was relaxed, smiling, chatting amiably with a couple of admiring young warriors as they rode.
No, thought Black Fox. Sitting Bear does not feel it. But what is it?
He tried to define his uneasiness, reviewing the events of the past two suns. They would undoubtedly be pursued by the Elk-dog People. Perhaps that was a matter for concern.
But no, that was not likely. The pursuing party would be small. They would not risk leaving the village undefended. At most the pursuit would consist of no more than their own party's strength.
There would be a confrontation of sorts. The pursuers would claim the horses; there would be much arguing and many boasts and threats. Then, depending on the relative strength of the two opposing parties, some horses might be given up or a refusal accepted. It was unlikely that a pitched battle would ensue.
Except for one thing, Black Fox reminded himself. Possibly it was this thought that had continued to worry him. It had to do with the identity of the band whose horse herd they had raided. He was of the opinion that this was the Southern band of the Elk-dog People. That group had been
a thorn in the flesh of the Head Splitters for a generation, since their hair-faced outsider had brought the first Elk-dogs.
The hair-faced chief was old now, of course, and no longer active in battle. Still, his was the most able of bands, daring and resourceful. Their unorthodox conduct in battle had resulted in the defeat of the Head Splitters, even under the able chiefs Gray Wolf, Lean Bull, and Bull's Tail. The last, though he had lived through his defeat, was convinced that some powerful, some supernatural medicine guarded this band. Bull's Tail had never been quite the same since the disaster at the cliff now called Medicine Rock.
Black Fox mentioned his doubts to Sitting Bear, who scoffed at the whole idea.
“Look, Fox. We have stolen their best horses, killed three of their strongest young warriors. Why do you worry?”
Still Black Fox worried. He cast backward glances, looking for any sign of pursuit. It was no surprise, then, when he spied the riders behind them. There was actually a sense of relief. He could handle anything, he felt, better than the uncertainty he had experienced. He shifted his weapons to readiness and relaxed to await the confrontation.
There was a flurry of excitement among the young warriors, quieted with a gesture by Sitting Bear. Now would come the posturing, threats, and discussion, followed by the skirmish, if any. Black Fox slumped comfortably until it was determined the extent of participation that would be required. Through narrowed lids he evaluated the approaching warriors.
He quickly saw that his own group slightly outnumbered the newcomers. Good. They could probably bluff through the argument without bloodshed.
The older warrior near the center was probably their leader. Black Fox had seen the man before. What was his name? Walking Bird? No,
Standing
Bird. Yes, this was the man. A subchief of the Southern band, head of one of the warrior societies, perhaps.
Black Fox had seen him as the two tribes encountered
each other casually each season while on the move. These contacts were brief and almost cordial, though cautious. There was no conflict when both groups had women and children with them. It would be too dangerous to involve the families.
So Black Fox now identified Standing Bird as the leader. The other members of the party appeared to be younger warriors, efficient-looking, possibly with some degree of experience.
At precisely that moment Black Fox was startled to see a slim youth on a gray horse leap forward into a charge. The thing was so ridiculous that it took a moment to realize what was happening. In fact he thought at first that the young warrior's horse had merely bolted out of control. In the space of a few heartbeats, however, it became apparent that the charge was deliberate. The slim youth was hammering heels into the gray mare's flanks and beginning to sound the war cry of the Elk-dog People in a high-pitched falsetto.
It was wrong. This was no way to conduct a battle. It should be left to the leaders to argue, exchange insults, and, in the final decision, lead the fight or arrange the terms.
But this novice warrior apparently did not understand the ritual. He was launching a deliberate charge without waiting for the confrontation and arguments.
Black Fox glanced at the rest of his own party. Sitting Bear was staring open-mouthed, and the younger warriors sat or milled about nervously. Black Fox looked back at the charging young warrior and discovered that a tall, capable-looking warrior on a big bay stallion had joined the charge. Close behind thundered the entire party of pursuers, led by Standing Bird. Their full-throated war cry echoed across the meadow as the distance between the two groups closed.
Black Fox, sitting apart from the major thrust of the attack, saw the clash develop before his eyes. The slim youth in the lead was charging straight at Sitting Bear, who still sat dumbfounded.
Then Black Fox had a startling realization. The charging
young warrior, swiftly bearing down on the raiders, was no warrior at all, but a
woman.
A crazy, completely mad woman, for some obscure reason riding with a war party.
Close behind her pounded the tall warrior on the bay stallion, readying his lance. Still, it was the woman who struck the first blow of the battle, an arrow thrown with unerring accuracy at the bare midriff of Sitting Bear. The chief, just readying his war club for the clash, slid limply from his horse instead.
Black Fox urged his horse forward but could not reach the center of the action before the two groups met. A young warrior swung his club at the crazy woman, but she avoided his blow by swinging nimbly to the side of her horse. The club whistled through empty air. A moment later the warrior who wielded it fell heavily before the lance charge of the tall man on the bay.
Now he and the woman were completely circled by young Head Splitters, fighting to free themselves. The woman loosed another arrow, and yet another, then cast her bow aside to swing a light war club. The man at her side used his lance until pressed too closely for working room. Then he, too, turned to the war club.
The two had made great inroads against the Head Splitters but were now becoming hard-pressed. Then the main force, led by Standing Bird, struck the fight. The new pressure was too much for the inexperienced horse raiders.
Black Fox, not yet even able to enter the conflict, pushed forward in frustration. Before his eyes his novice warriors began to panic. The rout became contagious, and in a moment the entire raiding party was in full flight, except for the handful lying dead or dying around Crazy Woman and her companion.
For a moment Black Fox considered a charge at the two, but he reconsidered. He had not survived to his present status by being foolhardy. He and his warriors, by this time in full flight, were now outnumbered. In addition, there was much he did not understand about this situation.
Why, for instance, had the Elk-dog warriors followed
Crazy Woman in her unorthodox charge? True, he had now seen her at close range and had observed that this was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
Yet among his own people that should have been all the more reason to keep her close to the lodge. Black Fox was sure that a night in his bed would break her spirit and make her forget such foolishness as going on war parties. Women of his tribe would never be allowed such activities.
And what of her tall companion, he of the bay stallion? What was his part in this?
Reluctantly Black Fox turned away. He must, to save his own skin. He cast one last look at the beautiful warrior woman and the tall man at her side.
He would remember those two.
When Running Eagle
sprang forward in the spectacular charge that resulted in a rout, she had no such idea in mind. Rather it was because of her inexperience. In her naivete she assumed that when one sees and identifies the quarry that it is proper to attack.
So while others were preparing weapons, waiting for the chiefs to start a parley, she initiated her charge. She was enraged that a member of the raiding party boldly rode Owl Dung, her brother's horse. Her rage, however, did not affect her judgment. Many times she had heard her grandfather speak of tactics in battle.
“Strike the enemy's leader first,” Heads Off counseled. “Then the others are without leadership.”
With this thought in the back of her mind, Running Eagle charged straight at the burly warrior near the center of the line who appeared to be the enemy leader. The horse thief riding Owl Dung would be second. Not until she had loosed her first arrow and observed the man's sliding collapse did she realize that she was virtually alone. Only Long Walker had followed her closely. He was thrusting
savagely with his lance, effectively striking the circling warriors around them.
Running Eagle was still puzzled. Where were Standing Bird and the other Elk-dog warriors? She had little time to wonder, as she loosed her second arrow at the man on her brother's horse.
It was not until after she had abandoned her bow in favor of the war club that Standing Bird's warriors struck. In a moment the Head Splitters were running in panic, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
There was one disquieting encounter. As the enemy retreated, one tall young chief seemed reluctant to leave. Running Eagle thought the man was about to charge and readied herself for the clash. Instead the other looked long and hard at her, then turned his horse abruptly to ride away. She had an odd premonition about this man, a feeling that they would meet again.
Now some Elk-dog warriors of Standing Bird were milling around, shouting the war cry. Some pursued the fleeing Head Splitters a short distance; others began to gather the excited horse herd. Long Walker reined in beside her. His presence was comforting, as the excitement of the conflict began to be replaced by the weak-kneed realization of what had happened.
“Aiee!
Did you intend to fight them all, by yourself?”
Long Walker's face was still flushed with victory, his eyes flashing and his smile broad and companionable. Both knew that they had fought well together, and the feeling was good.
But now Running Eagle began to realize that she had made a mistake in her lone charge. It must be that there were rules, like those of the hunt, that the leader of the war party must say when to begin.
Aiee
, how stupid of her! She glanced around, embarrassed, to see the reaction of the other warriors. Most were riding back and forth in wild celebration. A few looted the weapons from enemy dead, some raced after loose horses.
Standing Bird rode up, seemed about to speak, then
changed his mind. He nodded in recognition, expression unchanging. The girl was keenly aware that he might have severely criticized her. He had apparently chosen not to do so at this time. She wondered whether she would still be called before the warrior society for punishment. Perhaps she could speak to Walker about it.
Three young riders trotted past, singing triumphantly.
“—and she has killed the enemy, and stolen back the horses—”
Embarrassed, Running Eagle realized that she was the object of their song. Close on the heels of this thought came another. Her companions were regarding her lone charge as an act of bravery, not one of insubordination. This, in all probability, was the reason for Standing Bird's indecisiveness. She turned to him.
“My chief, I did not understand—”
Standing Bird shook his head gently. “It is nothing. It has turned out well. But, next time …”
Running Eagle nodded, ashamed. “Yes, my chief.”
Standing Bird ended the matter with a wave of his hand and rode away. Nothing more was said.
A young man rode up, leading a riderless horse. He handed the rein to the girl.
“Your brother's horse, Running Eagle.”
She nodded her thanks. Only now was coming the full impact of their mission's purpose, and her voice was choked into silence by this reminder of her loss.
The riders were surrounding the horse herd now, skillfully keeping the excited animals milling in a circle while they began to calm. When they appeared under control, the horsemen began to urge the herd back toward the village.
It had been a highly successful mission. They had punished the Head Splitters severely, killing several and counting many honors. The People had lost only one warrior, and two were slightly wounded. Because of the mounts of the dead raiders, they had recovered more horses than were originally stolen. This would be regarded as a great joke for many seasons, as long as the story was resung.
Except, brooded Running Eagle, it does not bring back Bobcat. How unfair that her brother should be struck down in his prime. It did not seem to be a part of the scheme of things. It would have been easier, perhaps, to give him up if the cause had been more sensible—an accident in the hunt, or even a loss in battle on a war party.
But a meaningless thing such as this she could not accept. Bobcat had done nothing except to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She tried to console herself with the thought that her brother had died bravely. She was unsuccessful. Her thoughts kept coming back to two ideas. One, that the death of Bobcat was somehow not intended to be. It was a flaw, an error in the world's pattern.
The other thought was that the interruption, the flaw, had been caused by a deliberate action on the part of the Head Splitters. For this, for the death of her brother, the enemy must be punished.
She rode in silence, in deep thought. She must wrestle with this problem. Long Walker rode at her side, also in silence. He had noted and was respecting her need to think.
The young man had no way of knowing how much those thoughts concerned him. Running Eagle had planned to have a serious conversation with Long Walker to plan their future together. Now everything had changed. First her brother must be avenged.
And, she realized, there was no one else to exact this vengeance. Her grandfather, Heads Off, was old. Her own father was handicapped by his crippled leg, and her uncle, in his capacity as medicine man, was not thought of as a warrior. Owl's son was only a small child.
It became all too apparent. In all her family she was the only warrior. It must fall to her to avenge her brother, to remove the stain from the lodge of Eagle.
This would bring great changes in her life. She must abandon her thoughts and dreams of a lodge of her own. She could ride with Long Walker, but it would be as warriors together, not as husband and wife.
Running Eagle's vows of chastity as a warrior sister came
back to her. She was in a state of exhaustion, weakened from her recent fast and loss of sleep the previous night. Somehow her previous vows and her present pledge of vengeance became one. She must set aside all womanly thoughts.
“Walker,” the girl finally spoke in a voice tense with emotion, “you know I must avenge my brother.”
Long Walker nodded sympathetically. “I know. I will help you. What must you do?”
“I do not know. The Head Splitters must feel the weight of his death.”
A cold chill crept up the back of Long Walker's neck. The girl was so calm, so logical, as she announced her vow to kill Head Splitters in revenge. Such a situation was not uncommon, of course. The shocking and unnerving thing was Running Eagle's cold and direct statement. Taking her usual approach, she was driving straight ahead toward her goal.
Running Eagle did not tell him at this time about her vow of chastity. It seemed unimportant compared to the overwhelming need to devote her efforts to warrior skills and vengeance.
Late that night, long after the village was quiet, Running Eagle slipped noiselessly from her parents' lodge. She carried a small but heavy bundle, retrieved from deep behind the lodge lining.
The girl made her way among the neighboring lodges, pausing to quiet a restless horse as she passed. She came to the stream and threaded her way between scattered trees, finally emerging at a still, deep pool some distance upstream. Here she stopped and set her pack on the grass.
For a long time she stood gazing at the starry sky, silently in communion with the world and its sometimes puzzling events.
At last she knelt and opened the rawhide pack. She took out a smooth, fist-sized object and carefully tossed it into the deepest part of the pool. The resounding plunk in the still night produced an echoing plunk from a startled bullfrog in
the reeds. A roosting bird fluttered sleepily, and the night was quiet again.
Methodically Running Eagle removed the rest of her carefully collected cooking stones from the pack. One at a time, the remaining stones followed the first one in a calculated, almost ritualistic ceremony. It was as if she were cutting the last ties to the life that might have been, that of a woman in her own lodge.
She discarded the last stone and stood for a moment, holding the empty rawhide pack. If anyone had been present to observe, he might have noticed that the face of the warrior woman glistened with tears in the shadowy light of the rising moon.

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