Bill Dugan (3 page)

A
S
C
URLY GREW OLDER
, he found himself spending more and more time with another boy a few years older than himself. Named, like almost all Sioux children, for an aspect of his physical appearance, the boy was called High Backbone, or Hump, for short. As they mastered some of the arts of the Sioux warrior, or so they thought, Curly and Hump spent more and more time together, wandering farther from the village with each passing month.

Each fed the courage of the other, and their natural curiosity, drawing them into the world outside the village, seemed to goad them both into behavior that neither would have risked on his own. Each of the boys knew that his play with his friend had a serious purpose. It was training for the harsh and unforgiving existence that would be their lot for the rest of their lives.

Armed with bows and quivers made from bobcat skins, they were learning to understand the world around them in the only way that really counted—by direct experience. No amount of firelight storytelling by the older women, even tales of Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit that oversaw the universe,
and cautionary parables about Iktomi, the Trickster, enlightening as they were, could be a substitute for following the zigzagging flight of a rabbit through the buffalo grass, or tracking a coyote to its lair.

Crazy Horse, as a Wicasa Wakan, as the holy men were called, saw the world of the Plains in a broader context, the way all holy men did. To him, each blade of grass had meaning, every pellet in a mound of rabbit droppings had its own significance, a role to play in the great cycles of life and death, the wheels within wheels on which the great plains revolved, taking the Sioux with them on every revolution.

Every night, after the evening meal, Crazy Horse would sit by the fire and ask Curly what he had seen during the day. Curly had a sharp eye, and never failed to have noticed something he had never seen before. Eagerly, he would tell his father everything. Then Crazy Horse would question the boy on what it meant. Sometimes, it was nothing more than an observation of clouds and what kind of weather they might foretell. Other times, it might be some trick played by a
heyoka
on one of the members of the
tiyospe.
The
heyoka
were special people, the clowns of the tribe, but more often than not there was a point to their tricks. Like Shakespearean fools, they always meant something by what they said and did, but it was left to the others to figure it out if they could.

Slowly and steadily, the way a tree grows imperceptibly taller day by day, Curly was getting an education as good as that of anyone in the whole Oglala nation. His mind was curious, but impatient.
He jumped from place to place, point to point, zigzagging like a bee in a field of flowers, but sooner or later, as Crazy Horse knew, the boy would pay a visit to every blossom.

The holy man was proud of his son, but frightened for him, too. More than once, he had had a vision, not always the same, but always with the same meaning—Curly was special. Crazy Horse would awaken from one of these dreams with his head spinning. It felt as if the ground were whirling faster and faster beneath him, trying to throw him off. It left him dizzy and a little nauseated. He would feel the cold sweat on his brow, trickling down under his shirt. His breathing would be short and sharp, rasping in his throat. In his ears, his blood beat like thunder and in his chest he could feel the hammering of his heart like an angry fist bashing at the bones that held it prisoner.

And as he would lie there, forcing his breathing back to normal, his hands folded over his chest as if to keep the ribs intact until the heart calmed down, he would try to understand the meaning of the latest dream. Always it centered on Curly, and always its meaning was tantalizing, elusive as a trout in fast water. Curly would achieve great things, for himself and for his people, but he would pay a terrible price. It was never clear what those great things were, and it was never clear what that terrible price might be, only that it was high. The details, Crazy Horse understood, were not meant for him to have, they were for Curly alone.

One day, he knew, his son would wander out into the wilderness and stare at the sky for hours on end, day and night, until Wakan Tanka saw fit
to crystallize the vision, make the meaning hard and clear, bright as a bird’s eye. And then it would be up to Curly. His son would have to decide whether to accept the weight of the vision with humility or try to fight it off. Such a fight, as Crazy Horse well knew, could not be won, but some men were tempted to try.

Late one summer, when Curly was nine years old, he and Hump, who was almost eleven, followed the tracks of a deer in a forest near the Black Hills. They could see the high peaks of the Paha Sapa in the distance, and the deer was heading that way. Neither boy had seen the deer, but the evidence of the earth was indisputable. The imprints of the hooves were crisp and fresh in the damp earth alongside a creek, where it must have come to drink.

Armed with short bows and the short arrows to match, the two boys followed the tracks deeper into the forest. They knew, by the depth of the prints, that the animal was of good size. And they could tell, by the spacing of the prints, that he was neither frightened nor in a hurry.

The ground was rocky, and the prints were scarce as they started uphill. The slope was long and rather steep. They could not see the Black Hills now, because they were hidden by the ridge above them. Trees, mostly in clumps, were scattered over the hillside, and clusters of large boulders filled many of the open spaces between the stands of trees. Their visibility was as good as they could ask for, but it also gave an advantage to the deer. If they were to get close enough to fire an arrow, they would have to be careful and clever.

Angling across the slope toward the northwest,
they had almost reached the top when Curly stopped in his tracks. He grabbed Hump by the arm and hauled him in behind a slab of red rock. Hump started to argue, but Curly put a finger to his lips and pointed uphill.

The older boy’s jaw went slack when he saw what his young friend was pointing at. The deer stood there just beyond a clump of cottonwoods, its head held high. An enormous rack of antlers speared the pure blue behind him like the ruins of an ancient oak.

The buck’s ear twitched, and it kept canting its head to listen. Curly knew it must have heard something and was trying to decide whether it should stand and fight or run for its life. The boys crouched behind the rock, hardly daring to breathe. They could see sunlight glistening on the damp nose of the great buck, and when once it turned its head to look in their direction, its eyes seemed to be full of fire, where the sunlight reflected from the huge, dark pupils.

“It’s the biggest deer in the world,” Hump whispered. The deer seemed to hear even the whisper, and looked sharply in their direction once more.

Curly clamped a hand over Hump’s mouth to keep him quiet.

At the deer’s feet, tall clumps of lush grass tempted it, and it shook its head, snorting once before lowering it to graze. Now, even the sharp tips of the antlers reflected the sunlight, and it looked to Curly as if lightning were spearing out from every point.

“I think I can get close enough to shoot him,” Hump whispered.

Curly shook his head no, but Hump ignored him. He started to ease out from behind the rock, and trying to stop him would make too much noise, so Curly let him go. Since staying where he was would do no good, he followed Hump, taking care to place his moccasined feet carefully. Even a small stone dislodged would make a clatter as it rolled away, and the deer was already nervous.

Hump worked his way across the hillside, heading for some scrub oak tangled in among a clump of boulders. If he could reach the cover without spooking the deer, he would be close enough at least to try. Already, Hump had three arrows clutched in his left hand against the bow grip. Curly knew that the best warriors could fire four, five, even six arrows so rapidly that the last one would already be arcing toward the target before the first one hit.

Hump was good, but not that good. Curly was better, but he didn’t want to shoot the deer in the first place, so he left his own arrows in their quiver.

When the boys reached the cover, Hump dropped to his knees and turned to look at his companion. Leaning close, he mouthed the words, “I think I can hit him from here.”

Once more, Curly shook his head. Soundlessly, he replied, “No. The deer is
wakan.”

“The deer is not holy,” Hump insisted. “He is just a deer. I will bring him down, and then you will see. If he were
wakan
, I would not be able to kill him.”

Curly nodded, as if in resignation, but that wasn’t what he meant and Hump knew it. But it didn’t deter him. He fitted the first arrow to his
bowstring, then started to rise up from behind the branches of a short oak.

Curly could see the deer, and it seemed as if the animal were waiting for something. It shook its head, snorted, and pawed the ground. The clack of its hooves on the rocks sounded like gunshots, and Hump jumped a little, then gave Curly an embarrassed smile over his shoulder.

“I’m nervous,” he said.

“You are right to be nervous,” Curly told him. His own smile was more forlorn.

Hump turned back to the buck who was now staring straight downhill toward the boys’ hiding place. Hump froze for a moment, his arm pulling back the bowstring until the arrowhead was right against the grip. As he stood up, his arms trembled from the strain of holding the bow at full draw.

With a sudden hum, the string snapped forward and the arrow sped uphill. The buck seemed to watch it, and made no attempt to evade the arrow. It struck his antlers with a sharp crack, then disappeared over the hilltop.

Still, the buck didn’t bolt. It continued to stare at the brush where the boys were hidden, took a tentative step in that direction, then stopped. Once more, Hump notched an arrow. This time, he let it fly. The bowstring sang and the arrowhead flashed in the sunlight as it sailed past the buck, passing to its right and sinking into the ground just behind its rear legs. Curly could see the upper half of the shaftand the bright red feathers.

The buck looked at the arrow for a moment, then back downhill. Hump fired a third arrow, andthis one fell short.

Curly began to relax, thinking that the buck, whether or not it was truly
wakan
, had nothing to fear from Hump. Suddenly, the buck charged downhill, straight toward them. Hump, caught reaching for a fourth arrow, gave a shout and broke into the open. He was running downhill, the buckthundering behind him and rapidly gaining ground.

Without thinking, Curly notched an arrow, drew and fired, a second arrow already under his fingers as the first struck the buck in the chest. Hump was screaming and the buck was closing. Already, it wasalmost even with Curly, who aimed and fired his second arrow. It struck the buck with a wet thwacking sound, sank in almost to the feathers, and the buck’s knees buckled and it fell to the ground, where it skidded. It turned to look at Curly, its nostrils foaming and bright red blood flecking its lathered lips. It gave a sigh, then its head fell forward and rolled to one side, until the great rack of antlers stopped it.

Hump was already scrambling back up the hill. “That was my deer,” he shouted. “You shouldn’t have shot him.”

“You tried,” Curly said. “He would have run you down if I didn’tshoot him.”

“It was my deer,” Hump said again.

“Take it, then. I give it to you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“He is dead because of you. You can’t leave him there. It is wasteful.”

“I don’t want him anymore.”

Without a word, Hump turned and stalked downhill, leaving Curly to stare after him in bewilderment. “Hump,” he called, “come back!”

But Hump ignored him. He started to run, heading back toward the village.Curly called again and again, but his voice just echoed from the hillside and died away to a whisper. Finally,when he understood that Hump was not coming back, he started after him, his short legs jolting with every stepas he ran down the hill.

Hump had a big lead, and the older boy’s longer legs were widening the gap with everystride.

By the time the village came into view, Hump had disappeared. Curly, crying now, ran to his tipi. Crazy Horse was sitting by the fire, playing with Little Hawk, his younger son, two years Curly’s junior.

He noticed the tears streaming down Curly’s face, but said nothing, preferring to wait for the boy to tell him what was wrong.

But Curly said nothing. He went to the farthest recess of the lodge and lay down on his stomach, his face buried against the buffalo skin sheathing of the tipi.

Crazy Horse got to his feet and set Little Hawk on the ground. Patting the boy’s head, he told him he would be back shortly, then walked over to sit beside Curly.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Curly shook his head and refused to look at his father. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

“Then why are you crying?”

Curly didn’t answer.

“Was Hump crying for the same reason when he came home? I saw him go past a little before you came in.”

Curly turned then and sat up. He looked at his
father, wiped his cheeks with the back of one hand, and nodded.

“What happened?”

He told his father about the deer. “And I thought it was
wakan.”

“Why?” Crazy Horse asked.

“Its antlers were full of fire, like lightning. It knew we were there and yet it was not afraid.”

“Does that make it
wakan?”

“Yes.”

The holy man nodded. “Perhaps there were two deer, then,” Crazy Horse suggested.

Curly shook his head. “No. There was just one.”

“Are you sure?”

Curly nodded. “Yes. I killed it. I saw it there on the ground. There was just one.”

“And where is this deer now? Show me.” He stood up, extended his hand, and waited for Curly to get to his feet.

Together, they walked back to the hill. “Up there,” Curly said, pointing.