Centennial (21 page)

In 1768, when Lame Beaver was twenty-one years old, he had one of those insights of extreme simplicity which mark superior men. He reasoned, “If we want horses, let’s go where the horses are.” And it was this that led him on his daring foray against the Comanche.

The vision came to him, as most good ones do, when he was preoccupied with hard work in a seemingly unrelated field. It was early autumn and Our People at Rattlesnake Buttes knew that for a safe winter they must lay away much more bison meat than they had so far been able to take. Here again it was that persistent matter of horses. The Pawnee and the Comanche could fan out, over vast distances and track down the bison where they were, and even the miserable Ute, when they came down out of their mountain strongholds, had horses for this purpose. But Our People had to track bison in the old way, the way Indians on the northern plains had been doing for a thousand years.

One morning a scout ran in with exciting news. A large herd had been sighted to the northwest and appeared to be moving in the right direction, although one could never tell for sure. Bison rarely moved in a discernible pattern; they milled about like a tornado which could set off on any heading. Still, one had to hope that they would move into a position from which they could be maneuvered toward the chalk cliff. Our People had no alternative but to act upon the supposition that this might happen.

Accordingly, the whole tribe left Rattlesnake Buttes for the laborious trek westward to intercept bison; on the see, and day scouts brought exhilarating news that the bison were heading southeast. With luck they might be diverted toward the chalk cliff.

As they walked, Lame Beaver became increasingly aware of a tall and lovely girl fourteen years old called Blue Leaf, daughter of Cold Ears, whom he had saved at the stake-out. He had received no thanks for his heroic action, for the old warrior had wanted to die and now his life was needlessly prolonged; many held it against Lame Beaver that he had interfered, because Cold Ears now had to be looked after by his daughter. She, on the other hand, was grateful to Lame Beaver for extending her father’s life a few more years and did not complain about the extra work of providing food for him.

It was time that Lame Beaver took a wife, and his father—that is, his real father’s second oldest brother—had several times broached the subject, but the young warrior had evaded it. His father offered to arrange a marriage, if necessary, but said that Lame Beaver could also look around for himself. In a desultory sort of way he had been doing that, but up to now he had overlooked Blue Leaf. On the trail in an elk-skin dress she was a handsome girl.

Our People moved a considerable distance westward, three days from camp, and in late afternoon of the third day they spotted the bison. It was a large herd, at least several thousand, and was barely moving. The trick would be to urge it gently toward the cliff in such a way that the bison would not be aware of what was happening. One had to be gentle, yes, but one also had to move with a certain dispatch, for there was always danger that those Ute with their horses might come screaming out of the mountains, cut off a few bison and force the rest to scatter. It required good judgment.

The chiefs decided that the larger body of Our People would swing westward in a great are and come quietly up behind the herd, not alerting it but maintaining a ready position if the bison tried to retreat over the ground they had just traversed. On the right flank fifteen or twenty braves would operate to keep the herd from moving into the low hills; theirs would be the easy task. It was the men assigned to the left flank who would have the crucial job, for they must keep the herd from heading toward the open plains, which it would want to do if frightened. The best men would be assigned this job.

Lame Beaver was nominated one of the seven wolves. These were braves who tied recently tanned wolf skins about them so that their bodies were completely masked; in this guise they crept up to the herd, almost touching the animals, which saw the wolves and shied away from them. There was little chance that the herd might stampede because of the wolves, for the bison knew that in a group they could protect themselves.

For two long waterless days Our People trailed the bison, the Indians in back maintaining a steady pressure, the ones towards the mountains constantly edging the great beasts toward the cliff. Lame Beaver and his six wolf men operated along the left flank to keep the bison from heading for the plains.

On the third day it became obvious that Our People had a good chance of driving the bison over the cliff, and great excitement manifested itself. The seven wolf men were now handed the best bows and arrows the tribe possessed, so that if the grand tactic failed, they could at least salvage something by shooting down some of the animals and thus ensure a meager supply of pemmican for the winter.

The fateful decision of when to stampede the herd was left in the hands of a council, to which Cold Ears, sagest bison hunter of them all, belonged. He said, “The worst error is to start too soon. The second error is to have men who are afraid at the points. I remember when we had the drive at Red Hills ...” The council did not wish to hear again about Red Hills; an uncle of one of the present council had failed in courage and the herd had escaped.

“I will take the left point,” Cold Ears said; and everyone knew that this was the crucial one, because if the bison stampeded in that direction and got onto the plains, all was lost. “Who will take the right point?” This was the one that kept the bison from scattering into the hills and was less dangerous and much less critical, but it nevertheless required a good man. An older chief volunteered for this post, and Cold Ears was satisfied.

So the trap was set. Two elderly chiefs, survivors of many such hunts, were given responsibility for launching the stampede, and they requested that most of the tribe and the dogs be moved into position along the crucial left flank to scare the bison with their noise if the animals tried to head for the plains. Lame Beaver and his wolf men were told what the signal would be, and all was ready.

With a wild cry the two chiefs lunged at the front rank of the bison. At the same instant those in back ran forward screaming and throwing rocks at the rear of the herd. And Lame Beaver and his wolf men fired arrows as fast as they could into the largest bison.

The herd panicked, and for a precarious moment—which terrified the Indians, for their lives depended upon the successful outcome of this hunt—it looked as if the beasts might simply mill in confusion and not run toward the cliff. But the chiefs had anticipated this, and a team of strong-armed young men started throwing large rocks at the lead animals, and after a desperate moment of hesitation, when every Indian prayed to Man-Above for assistance, the great herd began its gallop toward the cliff.

But unexplainedly it started to veer away, toward the plains, and it looked as if all was lost. Our People would garner only the few bison shot down by the wolf men. All the rest of that needed food, those blankets for survival, would escape.

“No! No!” Lame Beaver cried in despair.

Then, from the left point where he had stationed himself, Cold Ears ran forward to confront the bison. With arms waving and thin voice screaming above the thundering of the hoofs, he threw himself directly in front of the escaping beasts and turned them slightly to the west. The animals that followed pounded the fallen man so that his body would not again be recognizable. But the herd had been prevented from escaping to the plains.

Like the tremendous wave of water that thunders out of the mountain when an ice dam breaks, the horde of bison ran down the intended channel, with Our People waving and shouting to keep them in formation. The beasts came roaring down the slight incline, when suddenly those in front tried to stop, furiously grinding their forefeet into the dust and bellowing in fear, but to no avail. The bison coming behind stormed into them and pushed them over the cliff. Then those that had done the pushing were hurled over by those behind. Thus the great herd committed suicide, animals weighing almost a ton crashing down on those heaped up below, breaking necks and legs and backbones, and all marked by billows of dust and pitiful bellowing.

It had become inconsequential how many bison the arrows of the wolf men had killed. Four hundred animals lay at the foot of the cliff, either dead or so injured that they could be killed at leisure by the butcher women. The stampede had been successful beyond hopes; the unneeded carcasses would be left for the Ute, which was about as generous as Our People could be toward them.

Only the very best animals, the tender young cows, were completely butchered. From the others the tongues were taken for ceremonial purposes, and some of the softer cuts about the hump. One had to be careful to collect enough of the guts for making pemmican, and in order to give that winter ration good taste, some proportion of stronger-flavored meat from older animals was advisable, so men who had supervised butchering of such kills before moved among the women and gave advice.

Lame Beaver, watching the wild confusion and appreciating the fact that only the sacrificial bravery of Cold Ears had enabled the drive to succeed, said to himself, “It is not good to hunt bison this way. The animals at the bottom of the pile are so covered by those on top that even vultures won’t be able to get them. It should be done with horses.” Then: “If you want horses, you go where the horses are.” There would be no more toying with Pawnee, who owned a few horses. He would invade Comanche country, where there were hundreds.

He laid his plans carefully. He would take with him only two companions, but they must be young men he trusted and who would not be afraid to die. For some days, as the tribe lugged huge burdens of bison meat and robes back to Rattlesnake Buttes, with all dogs laden, he studied his companions, and one after another he dismissed them as unlikely to stand the strain of what he had in mind.

Gradually he began to focus on a young brave named Red Nose, stolid, unimaginative, of unquestioned bravery. He saw in him the kind of young man who decides early that he will one day be a chief; from that moment all his actions become subordinate to that desire. He begins to speak gravely, nods cautiously when older men put forth proposals, and deports himself with decorum. Lame Beaver did not like Red Nose; he found him quite pompous. But never had he seen him do a wrong thing, neither an impetuous act nor a foolish one. He was already a sub-chief, a man to be trusted to the death, because his own vanity would not permit him to fail.

One night he went to Red Nose and asked, “Are you willing to join me in a great feat ...” He hesitated for the right word. “Something that would bring horses to our tribe?” Red Nose deliberated for some time, as Lame Beaver knew he would, then said, “To get horses I would do anything.” They grasped each other’s shoulders.

Lame Beaver then directed his attention to an unlikely man called Cottonwood Knee, named after that strange accident which sometimes occurs along the riverbank when a root of a tree which should grow underground takes it upon itself to grow upward for a while, then scampers hurriedly back beneath the earth. He had none of the characteristics of Red Nose: he was plumpish, whereas the would-be chief was lean; he talked a lot, whereas the future sage was taciturn; and his face was an open smile, generous and marked with handsome white teeth, whereas Red Nose preserved the somber countenance of a leader. But Cottonwood Knee had a quality that was priceless for a dangerous mission: he had absolute loyalty to any commitment. He was reliable; just as the Platte River ran year after year, sometimes sprawled out and sometimes a well-defined river, so Cottonwood Knee ambled his fat and amiable way through life. When the Platte was in flood, it seemed to have no central direction whatever, but slowly it pulled itself together and not even Man-Above could restrain it from its course for long.

“Would you be willing to undertake a major adventure?” Lame Beaver asked the chubby man one afternoon.

“Yes,” Cottonwood Knee responded. He did not even ask what it was.

The day came when the three volunteers had to present their plan to the tribal council, and Lame Beaver prudently assigned this task to Red Nose, who discharged it with skill: if the whole tribe moved south to make war against the Comanche, they will know about it. They will be prepared. We will lose many braves and not catch many horses. But if we three go down in stealth, if we fail, only three are lost. And if we succeed, we shall have horses.”

After much discussion, permission was granted, but Lame Beaver’s father was directed to counsel with the inexperienced warriors, and he said, “You know, of course, that the Comanche practice terrible tortures on the enemies they capture. They love their horses above all else, and if you are caught tampering with them, you will die horribly. It is said that when a man is taken by the Comanche, he dies eleven times. Their women have cruel ways of torturing a man, yet keeping him alive.

“If your mission fails, wait till the last moment. Then kill yourselves. And if one of you finds himself in a position in which he cannot take his own life, you survivors must promise to kill him before you depart. Is this agreed?”

The three companions looked at each other; they had known of the Comanche reputation for hideous death but they had not wanted to speak openly of it. Now they had to face the prospect, and Red Nose addressed his two comrades: “If I falter you must kill me.”

Cottonwood Knee said, “Don’t leave me with the Comanche.”

It was Lame Beaver who said it the other way: “If you are helpless, I promise to kill you.”

Then Lame Beaver’s father took him aside and said, “I have noticed you watching Blue Leaf. Your eye seems to have fallen upon her.” Lame Beaver assented by his silence, and his father continued, “While you are gone I will speak to her brother and find out how many bison robes.” To, this, Lame Beaver made a response which would be long repeated in the tribe: “Tell her brother that for Blue Leaf, I will give a horse.”

It was a long trek south to the land of the Comanche, with a likelihood at every step that these swift-riding scourges of the plains would spot them, but the three braves were also skilled plainsmen, and they left no tracks, betrayed no presence. Twice, in the later days, they saw Comanche riding along the crests of hills, but even an eagle would have had difficulty detecting the intruders as they hid among the grasses.