Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 (4 page)

Sitting Bull seemed satisfied as he lifted Slow to the back of the horse and handed him the musket, then took the horse’s bridle and headed back out through the gate.

Once they were outside, Slow asked, “Why did the Hohe trade his skins for water, while you and the Crows got guns, bullets, and powder for yours?”

Sitting Bull shook his head. “It is a long story. I will tell you later.”

Missouri River Valley
1841

S
LOW SQUATTED BEHIND A
scrub oak, craning his neck to look up at the sheer rock wall towering over his head. He was leaning back so far he felt dizzy, as if he were going to lose his balance at any moment and fall flat on his back. The bow felt heavy in his hands, the strain of holding it ready was making his shoulders ache. But the swallows nesting in the rock wall were not concerned with how Slow felt. They came and went when they chose, flitting out of the niches in the sheer rock face so suddenly that they were gone almost before he saw them.

It was a small bow, and he sometimes wished that he had a better one, one with more power, but his father insisted that he was not ready for a man’s bow. “When the time comes,” Sitting Bull always told him, “I will know, and so will you. And then you will have a warrior’s bow. Learn to shoot well with the bow you have.”

So for now, all he had was a boy’s bow, and instead of elk and deer and buffalo, he shot at birds and rabbits and prairie dogs. He could dream of hunting the larger animals, but dreams were no longer good enough. Even shooting at small birds took skill, but it was not the same as tracking a deer and bringing it down with one well-placed arrow. This was not really hunting. But he trusted Sitting Bull, and he would have to be content to practice, to hone his skill.

Above him, the birds tumbled like leaves in the wind for a foot or so after they launched themselves into the air, black shapes fluttering wildly for a split second before gaining their balance and swooping off and away. He had been spending every morning here for a week, bow in hand, blunt-tipped arrows rattling in his quiver every time he moved. After three days he thought the noise of the arrows against the stiff buffalo hide of the quiver might be giving him away, so he filched a piece of blue trade cloth from Her Holy Door’s meager supply and stuffed it into the quiver to keep them quiet.

But so far the silence hadn’t helped. The birds were so quick and their flight so unpredictable. He sighted along the arrow, thinking that waiting for the perfect moment was like trying to predict where lightning would strike a week before the storm clouds came. It couldn’t be done. It was beyond medicine, it was even beyond luck. It was, he was beginning to think, not going to happen at all, ever.

Now and again, out of sheer frustration, he would let loose with an arrow even though the
bird was already gone. It felt good to release the tension in his arms and back, hear the hum of the bowstring, and watch the arrow climb toward the top of the cliff, where it would hang suspended for a moment, then tilt over, slow as a falling tree for a short eternity, then turn its nose down and slowly gather speed as the earth reclaimed it. The blunt-nosed arrow would land within a few feet of him, sometimes intact, sometimes, when it hit a rock, slitting the tip and rendering itself useless. But arrows could be had by the hundreds, so it was a small price to pay to rid himself of the accumulated frustration.

His mind was drifting, and he tried to bring it back to the task at hand. Squinting to focus his eyes, he saw another swallow tumble from the cliff, and almost by instinct, he let loose. The bowstring snapped and the arrow flew, sailing within an inch or two of the oblivious bird. Slow kicked the dirt in frustration and sat down with his back against the stunted oak. Taking a deep breath, he watched the clouds for a few minutes. He saw an eagle far off, circling, then dropping like a stone. Even from this great distance, he could see the magnificent bird’s legs extended, the talons curled like the inflexible fingers of an old woman. The bird disappeared behind a cottonwood as it plummeted to earth.

A moment later it reappeared, the talons now dug deeply into its squirming prey—a prairie dog, from the look of it. Imagining the piercing agony of those talons, he shuddered. He wondered what it would feel like to be as small as that prairie dog and have a huge bird fall from the sky and seize
him in the blink of an eye. But he couldn’t imagine it, or didn’t really want to, so he shook himself free of the secondhand terror and climbed to his feet again.

Once more he stood looking up, the bowstring at his shoulder, the arrow drawn almost to its tip. This time he was going to wait, no matter how long it took, and let the bird find stable flight before he launched his arrow. Maybe that would make a difference. At least it was worth a try.

When the next swallow darted away from the red rock, he followed it, let it right itself, then let the bowstring loose. The arrow wobbled once, then slammed into the swallow. The bird seemed to stagger in the air, one wing no longer working properly, and off balance, moving backward like a Heyoka clown, it fluttered to the ground. A moment later, the arrow clattered to earth on some rocks, rattling like a gourd, and Slow raced for the downed bird.

He found it right away, still not certain what had happened. The long, arcing wings were still fully extended, but one clearly had been broken and lacked the graceful sweep of the other, the smooth curve of its leading edge now an odd angle. As Slow approached, the bird fluttered and hopped away, taking refuge in the brush. Setting his bow on the ground, Slow dropped to his knees and crept toward the cowering swallow, his right arm extended in a gesture meant to soothe the frightened bird, lull it into staying where it was until the open hand could get close enough to seize it.

The bird cheeped, then squawked, its beady eyes
darting this way and that as the hand drew closer. Backed into a corner now, it seemed to realize it was trapped. Slow leaned forward, cooing to the swallow to quiet it, and with one last dart of his hand, he closed the bird in his fingers, trying not to squeeze too hard. As he lifted the bird, a hand grasped his own shoulder and squeezed tightly. Startled, he dropped the swallow and turned, remembering his fear of the eagle’s talons, jerking to pull himself free of the grasping fingers.

Sitting Bull shook his head as Slow straightened up. “A wise warrior never leaves his bow,” he said, handing the weapon to his son.

“I was trying to get the bird.”

“And if I was a Pawnee instead of your father? What would happen then?”

“I … I would have … I would have heard you, then,” Slow stammered.

Sitting Bull shook his head and squeezed the boy’s shoulder again. “You didn’t hear me.”

“But I would have heard a Pawnee,” Slow insisted. “I know I would have.”

“Does a Pawnee have hooves and snort when he walks? Does he have a rattle in his tail and shake it to let you know that he is coming?”

“No, but …” Slow looked at the ground now. For a moment, he saw the toes of his moccasins, and those of his father’s. It seemed that he would never be big enough to know everything he needed to know, or to take care of himself when he made a mistake. He scraped one toe on the ground, watching the grass bend, then straighten again, then at the groove he had made in the soil. He wanted to
look at his father, but couldn’t force himself to lift his gaze.

Sitting Bull waited for a long moment, then lifted Slow’s chin. Letting go, but holding his son’s eyes with his own, he drew a finger under his chin all the way across his larynx. “You would not have heard a Pawnee, and he would have cut your throat before you knew he was there.”

Slow knew that his father was right. He felt silly, but did not try to defend himself any longer. There was no defense and he knew it. He had made a mistake. He had committed the unpardonable sin of leaving his weapon while out on his own. It didn’t matter that he was not far from the village. And it didn’t matter, either, that the small bow would not have saved him from a Pawnee. He had to learn to do the small things well before he could do the big things.

“I was watching you,” Sitting Bull said, letting his stern expression relax a bit.

“How long?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Not long. But long enough to see you hit the swallow. It was a good shot.”

“I wish I could shoot at something besides little birds and prairie dogs.”

“That is why I have come for you. The buffalo are not far, and I think maybe it is time for you to learn how to hunt them. You are old enough now.”

Slow felt his face splitting into a broad smile. This was the moment he had been waiting for since he had gotten his first bow. Thinking about the weapon in his hand, though, his face fell. “I don’t
have a bow that is powerful enough to bring down a buffalo.”

“Yes,” Sitting Bull said, smiling himself now, “you do. Come on, we are already late.”

With that, he turned and started walking away from the cliff. Slow had to run to keep up with his father’s longer strides. They were heading for the cottonwoods where Slow had seen the eagle snare its prey an hour before. A tiny creek wound across the valley floor, clumps of trees marking its passage, thickest where the stream widened out into pools. Tethered to one of the trees, he saw his father’s hunting pony, and next to it, his own gray.

When they reached the horses, Sitting Bull removed a package from the rear of his horse. Wrapped in buckskin, it was long and cylindrical, nearly five inches in diameter. Sitting Bull started to hand the package to his son, lifting it away from the boy’s eager grasp once, then again, to tease him a little. Slow jumped, and when he got his fingers on the buckskin, Sitting Bull lowered it, let Slow cradle it for a moment in his arms, then said, “Go on, open it.”

Slow sat on the ground, the cylinder in his lap, and tore at the thongs holding the buckskin closed. The knots were tight and gave him trouble. Finally, no longer able to control his impatience, he grabbed a small knife from a sheath on his belt and sliced through the four thongs, each of them parting with a sharp snap as the taut leather gave way. When all four thongs had been cut, Slow looked at the package, ran his fingers over the indentations
in the buckskin where the thongs had pinched it, then opened the roll.

The bow he uncovered was beautiful. Smooth ash on the inner curve, the bark left on the outer face. The bow had been carefully crafted, polished almost to a gloss where the bark had been removed. A band of leather, three inches or so wide, marked the grip, and a pair of small eagle feathers fluttered from either tip. Already strung, it had been painted with bands of bright color and the stylized figures of two birds, either eagles or thunderbirds, he wasn’t sure.

Looking up at Sitting Bull, he said, “It’s perfect. It’s the best bow I’ve ever seen.”

Sitting Bull nodded. “Black Owl Flying made it for me. He knows how to make the best bows. His bows never break if they are taken care of. He can look at a tree and find where the bow is hidden, then cut away everything that is not the bow. It could not be longer or shorter. It is the only bow in that tree, and you should treat it with respect. Treat it with all the care that went into its making, and it will never fail you.”

Slow plucked the sinew string, heard the pure hum of it, almost like the note of a flute. As it vibrated for a split second, it was a blur in the middle, and when it came to rest, there was perfect silence.

Slow got to his feet. Sitting Bull handed him a hunting arrow, its iron tip black from the fire, its razor edges shining in the morning sun. The boy looked around for a fitting target for his first shot, and when none presented itself, he aimed high,
toward the sun, drawing the bow as deeply as he could. It was powerful, too powerful for his ten-year-old shoulders, and he struggled to get the arrow back to the head. He had to stop with a good eight inches of shaft still separating bow and arrowhead, and his arms were shaking. He forced them to be still. Sighting along the shaft of the brand-new arrow, he let go of the string, feeling a sharp sting where it slapped against his wrist. Lowering the bow, he watched the long, graceful arc of the arrow’s flight as it cleared the cottonwoods and disappeared behind the crowns of the trees.

Looking at Sitting Bull, he licked his lips. “Thank you, Father,” he said.

“Get on your pony, son. It’s time for you to learn to hunt the buffalo.”

Missouri River Valley
1841

E
VEN BEFORE SLOW AND HIS FATHER
reached the last ridge, beyond which the herd was grazing, he could hear the buffalo. The grunts of the bulls sounded like the earth itself moving. Dust rose over the ridgeline, filling the air with a faint beige pall as the animals moved restlessly, churning the earth and tearing at the grass.

Father and son rode cautiously, not wanting to spook the animals. Sitting Bull wanted Slow to learn the intricacies of the hunt, on which the life of the Hunkpapa depended. The best way to learn was by doing, but he was not about to send his son into the hunt without a little preparation. A buffalo herd could be dangerous. The bulls were ornery, and they were a lot quicker than their ungainly appearance suggested. The horns, worn by both bulls and cows, were vicious weapons, and an enraged buffalo was afraid of nothing.

Sitting Bull had seen more than one friend killed by the huge beasts. He had seen, too, a horse gored by a charging bull, its entrails pulled loose, the frightened pony running, stepping on its own intestines, pulling itself apart until it fell dead in its tracks.

They reached the crest of the ridge and Sitting Bull dismounted, telling Slow to do the same. Their mounts and packhorses took the opportunity to graze a bit. Far below, the herd stretched halfway up either side of the ridges that formed a long, vee-shaped valley. Slow gasped, watching the numberless animals, many of them wandering aimlessly. Some of the buffalo were on the ground, squirming on their backs, using loose dirt to rid themselves of parasites. Slow saw a pair of huge bulls square off, lowering their heads and pawing at the grass before running together with a clash of horns.