Devil Moon (4 page)

A vast blackness consumed her.

The whites called them Sheepeater Indians because they ate a lot of mountain sheep. They also ate a lot of elk and deer and whatever else they could kill and forage, but the white name stuck.

They called themselves the Tukaduka. In the white tongue it meant “people of the high places.” They preferred the high parks and valleys to the flatlands and low valleys and seldom drifted down from the heights.

Other tribes considered them poor. They did not have horses. They did not have buffalo-hide lodges. They did not have white guns or white blankets or white pots and pans. They did not have white knives or white sewing needles or any of the other thousand and one things the whites had that the other tribes craved. But that was fine by the Tukaduka. They did not envy the whites their many goods. They did not desire to be rich as the other tribes saw rich to be.

To the Tukaduka, richness lay in the simple life. Getting along with others was valued more than all else, even white guns. Devotion to family meant more than white knives or sewing needles. Their families, the whites would say, were everything to them.

They did not live in villages. Each family had its own valley or park and dwelled in perfect contentment. It was true that at times they went hungry. It
was true that the icy cold of winter was hard and sometimes cost lives. But they were happy, and to the Tukaduka being happy was the reason Coyote had brought them into the world.

War parties from other tribes left them alone. Counting coup on the Tukaduka, the other tribes believed, was as easy as plucking grass. It was insulting for a Piegan or a Blackfoot to boast of killing one. The Tukaduka were regarded as meek and weak as the sheep the whites named them after.

So the Sheepeaters lived quiet, simple lives, and went about their daily tasks at peace with the other tribes and the world around them.

Two Knives was a father of three. His family dwelled in a small valley watered by a gurgling stream high near the Divide. He had seen white men only twice. The first time it had been a party of trappers who stopped in the valley for the night. They were after beaver. Two Knives told them there were none in his valley, but they didn’t believe him until they had scoured the banks of the stream from one end of the valley to the other. One night two of them got drunk and tried to force themselves on Dove Sings. That angered Two Knives greatly. He was not big enough or strong enough to fight them, but fortunately another white man thought it wrong and stopped them.

The second time had been better. A lone white man with hair like snow stopped for a night. He shared his supper and was kind and smiling. Two Knives liked him a lot and could not understand why other Indians had given the white man the name Wolverine. The man had been as peaceful as the birds that Dove Sings was named after.

Much of what the white man said, Two Knives did not understand. The man had something called a “book,” which he recited with a flourish of his hands and arms. It amused Dove Sings greatly. Two Knives had been considerably surprised when Wolverine told him that the whites kept much of their learning and their wisdom in those “books.” Two Knives always thought that learning and wisdom were best kept inside a person.

Even to this day Two Knives occasionally remembered Wolverine and wondered what became of him. Wolverine had been good and decent, qualities Two Knives admired more than any others.

That had been many winters ago, when the oldest of their children was a baby. By now Fox Tail had lived nearly twenty winters and would soon take a wife of his own and move away. Two Knives was not looking forward to that. He would miss his oldest son dearly. He loved his other two children just as much, but it was always hard on the heart when a dear one left.

Otherwise, all was well with their world. Their lodge, made of pine boughs and brush, was spacious enough that they weren’t cramped. Each evening the five of them sat around the small fire and talked. On this particular evening their eyelids were heavy with the need for sleep. Soon they would turn in.

Elk Running, the middle child, was telling them about how he had nearly caught a fish in a pool with his hands. The fish had proved too quick, and he had slipped and fallen in, and they were smiling and laughing when they all heard the shriek. It pierced the valley like a knife thrust, silencing the coyotes and the owls, and silencing all of them, as well. They
sat frozen in surprise as the shriek wavered on the wind and gradually faded.

“One of the big cats,” Dove Sings said.

“It is looking for a mate,” Two Knives guessed. “By morning it will be gone.”

“I hope so,” little Bright Rainbow said. “That scared me.”

Dove Sings took their youngest onto her lap and smoothed her hair, comforting her. “The big cats do not bother us if we do not bother them. We will be fine.”

Two Knives said, “It is the brown bears you must watch out for. When you see one, climb a tree as high as you can climb.”

“I am not afraid of them,” Elk Running declared.

“You should be.” Two Knives had lost a cousin to a brown bear. His cousin lingered for days with half his face bitten off and half his chest torn to ribbons. Two Knives’s secret fear was that one day a brown bear would catch him as it had his luckless cousin.

“I will look for sign tomorrow,” Fox Tail announced.

“The cat will be gone,” Two Knives stressed.

“I will look anyway. It is not often we find cat sign.”

Two Knives was proud of his oldest’s tracking skill. His son would sometimes spend half a day tracking an animal for the fun of tracking. “Be careful.”

“I am always careful,” Fox Tail said.

The next morning started like any other. They were up at the first blush of dawn. Dove Sings made a breakfast of grouse eggs and strips of sheep meat.
Fox Tail took his bow and quiver and went off to search for sign of the big cat.

Two Knives spent the morning helping Dove Sings cure a deer hide. Unlike some of the other tribes, the Tukaduka did not think it beneath a man’s dignity to do what other tribes called “women’s work.” He and Dove Sings did nearly everything together. Sometimes he even cooked their meals.

The sun was at its highest when Dove Sings looked up and remarked, “He should have been back by now.”

Two Knives did not need to ask who she was talking about. Elk Running was over by the stream with Bright Rainbow. “The cat was high up. Fox Tail could spend most of the day looking and not find anything.” The big cats did not leave a lot of sign as other animals did; they were too stealthy, too secretive.

“I wish he had not gone.”

“You are worried?”

“Yes. Here.” Dove Sings touched her bosom over her heart.

“I will go look for him.”

“No,” Dove Sings said. “You are probably right. The cat is gone and he is safe and I worry over nothing. I would rather you stay here with us.”

“As you want.” But now Two Knives was worried. His wife often had feelings she could not account for that turned out to be right. He spent the rest of the afternoon constantly glancing at the forested slopes that rimmed their valley and were in turn capped by ramparts of stone or in the case of the highest peaks, by cones and spires of glistening snow.

The sun was low on the horizon when Elk Running came to him and asked, “Shouldn’t Fox Tail have been back by now?”

“It could be your brother found sign and followed it,” Two Knives suggested. He did not mention that Fox Tail knew better than to be abroad after dark. The Tukaduka were
never
abroad after dark.

“Fox Tail is strong and brave. Maybe he will slay the cat and bring us the hide.”

“Maybe,” Two Knives said.

Dusk settled over their valley. They ate supper and sat around the fire, all of them quiet, and listened. Coyotes yipped and a wolf howled and near their lodge an owl hooted.

“Fox Tail would never be gone this long.” Dove Sings voiced what was on all their minds.

“I will look for him in the morning,” Two Knives said.

He did not sleep well. Nor did his wife. Usually they slept cuddled together, but on this night they turned and tossed and for long stretches he lay on his back and stared at the empty air, worried. He was up much earlier than was his wont, and dressed and went out. The brisk chill made him shiver. He gazed at the stars and out over the valley, and frowned.

A doeskin dress whispered, and Dove Sings was beside him. “Something has happened to him.”

“I think so, yes,” Two Knives admitted.

“You should not go alone. Take Elk Running.”

“Bright Rainbow and you should not be alone.”

“I can use a bow, and I have my knife.”

“I want him to stay with you,” Two Knives insisted. He seldom forced his will on her, but in this he was firm.

Dove Sings took his hand in hers. “We have lived many winters together. I would not like to live a winter alone.”

Two Knives smiled. “I am not a Shoshone. I do not test my manhood with my courage.”

“I will not sleep until you return.”

His stomach was in no shape for breakfast. He left shortly after sunup armed with his small bow and short arrows and a pair of flint knives. Dove Sings filled a pouch with dried deer meat, and he slanted the strap across his chest. She and Elk Running and Bright Rainbow stood and watched him jog off. He looked back at them right before he entered the trees, and Dove Sings waved. He waved to them.

The forest was eerily quiet. Normally birds warbled and squirrels chattered, but today not a single chirp or chitter broke the stillness. Even the wind had died and the trees were motionless and foreboding.

Two Knives did not like to think what it might mean. The shriek the night before had come from the north, and it was to the north end of the valley that he bent his steps. His moccasins made little noise on the carpet of pine needles, but each sound they did make was like a thunderclap to his ears. He walked with an arrow notched to the sinew string.

The higher Two Knives climbed, the steeper the slopes. He suspected that the cat had entered their valley through a pass in the north ring of peaks. If so, that was the smart place to start looking for sign. It was where his son would have looked.

By midmorning Two Knives could see the pass, still a ways off. The next slope was mostly barren of vegetation. Years ago an avalanche had torn most of the growth away, and it was just starting to reclaim
the soil. He started up and there, in the dirt, was a footprint he knew as well as he did the wrinkles in his palm. “Fox Tail,” he said out loud. The footprints pointed up. He eagerly followed them and was almost to a broad belt of firs when the footprints changed direction. The reason was another set of tracks that came down from above and turned toward the valley floor. His son had followed them

Two Knives stopped in consternation. The tracks were plainly those of one of the big cats—but he had never in his life seen or heard of cat tracks as big as these. The tracks were almost as big as young brown bear tracks. Sinking onto a knee, he tried to cover one with his outspread hand and couldn’t. He was more than a little afraid. “Fox Tail, no,” he said. His son should know better than to follow a cat that big.

He hurried on into thick woods where it was harder to find sign. He had to go slow and stay bent low to the ground. Only once did he come across a complete set of the cat’s prints, all four paws in a row; they confirmed something he had noticed. The cat was limping. He attributed the cause to the fact that one of the front paws was smaller than the other three.

Shadows dappled the greenery. Silence reigned saved for the buzz of a fly that flew around Two Knives’s head and then winged off. He stepped over a log and skirted several spruce. Ahead was a boulder larger than his lodge. He went around it, as the tracks did, and on the far side drew up short. His chest seemed to burst outward and his breath caught in his lungs. “No!” he said.

Fox Tail lay on his back. Most of his throat was gone. A gaping cavity and puncture marks showed
where the cat had ripped it out with its teeth. Fox Tail’s stomach had also been torn open and his intestines strewn about as if the cat were in a frenzy of vicious glee. Fox Tail’s glazed eyes were locked wide in surprise.

The tracks told Two Knives the story. His son had come around the boulder and the cat had been waiting, crouched on a niche well above Two Knives’s head, a niche that only the sinuous cat could reach. Two Knives figured that Fox Tail had been so intent on the tracks that he had not noticed the cat until it was too late. Fox Tail’s broken bow was next to him. His quiver had been torn apart and the arrows scattered and bit in half.

Two Knives bowed his head. His eyes misted and he had a lump in his throat. He put a hand on his dead son and said tenderly, “I loved you with all that I am.” He did not want to leave the body there, but he could not take it back either; he would spare Dove Sings the horrible sight. Accordingly, he gathered fallen limbs and dry brush and rocks and covered his son so that scavengers could not get at the remains.

Two Knives had a decision to make: go after the cat or go back. He turned and headed down. Too many obstacles and too many thickets delayed him. It seemed to take forever to descend to the valley floor. He came out of the pines and broke into a run. The high grass swished about his legs and he startled a rabbit that bounded off in fright. He was still a long distance from the lodge when he noticed the grass to his right about twenty steps away swaying as if with the wind—only there was no wind. He stopped, and the grass stopped moving.

For the second time that day Two Knives shivered, but not from cold. He raised his bow and strained his ears but heard only the hammering of his heart. Time crawled. Finally he made bold to move on, and with his first step the grass bent. He stopped moving again and so did the grass. A tingle ran down his spine.

There could be no doubt.

The cat was stalking him.

Two Knives stood rooted in dismay. He had never had anything like this happen. He raised his bow and sighted down the arrow at the moving grass. He didn’t see the cat. It must be crouched low. He waited for it to show itself, but it didn’t.

Should he stay there and wait the beast out or try and make it to his lodge? He liked the second idea best, but the cat might follow him, imperiling those he loved most in the world.

A low snarl warned him the cat hadn’t gone anywhere. He backed toward the forest, and the grass moved as if to invisible hands, bending in the direction he was going. In frustration he almost let loose his shaft.

Two Knives slid one foot behind him and then the other. The grass caught at his ankles, and he was careful not to stumble. The bow string dug into his fingers, but he didn’t relax it.

In his wake stalked the cat.

Two Knives did not sweat often, but he sweated now. Drops beaded his brow, and his buckskin shirt became so wet it clung to him. He risked a glance behind him and saw he had a long way to go to the trees. With the cat shadowing his every step, it would be a wonder if he made it.

Two Knives thought of Fox Tail. A great sadness gripped him. He had loved his firstborn with all the
love a father could have for a son. He loved his other children, too. In order to spare them and Dove Sings, he decided to provoke the cat into attacking him and then to try and slay it with an arrow. He came to the forest. Farther in, the undergrowth was thick, but here at the edge there was little. He would see the cat if it came at him. He backed up a dozen shrot steps and raised his bow. He saw the tips of the grass move, but they stopped moving well out from the woods. He aimed at the spot where he thought the cat must be and let fly. The shaft flew true and hit exactly where he wanted, but nothing happened. There was no screech or yowl, no rush of a tawny form with fangs bared. He had missed and wasted an arrow.

Two Knives nocked another. Acting on an idea, he sidestepped to a tall pine. Without taking his eyes off the grass, he jumped high into the air and wrapped his arm around one of the lowest branches. In another moment he was straddling it and had the bow string drawn. He could see more of the grass—but he still couldn’t see the cat.

Two Knives climbed higher. He went as high as the limbs would bear his weight and still couldn’t spot his stalker. He could see his lodge, though. Dove Sings and Bright Rainbow were moving about outside it. He went to cup a hand to his mouth to shout a warning to them to go inside but thought better of it. Dove Sings might do the opposite and come to see what was wrong. She was strong willed, that woman.

Two Knives turned his attention to the grass again, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. The grass had parted, framing the head and forequarters of the meat-eater. He could not quite believe
what he was seeing. It wasn’t a tawny mountain cat; it was a
black
one, as black as a raven, with piercing yellow eyes that were fixed on him in hatred. He saw it for only a moment, and then it was gone.

Two Knives had never heard of such a thing. Or had he? He remembered a tale told among his people, a tale he’d heard when he was a small boy, about a black mountain cat like this one that wreaked havoc with the Tukaduka. The Devil Cat, they called it. Not in the white sense, which Two Knives had learned from one of the trappers. The trapper said that all the good in the world came from God and all the bad in the world came from what the trapper called the Devil. Apparently the white Devil lived far under the earth in an inferno of fire and caused suffering to human souls after death.

The Tukaduka meaning was different. To them a devil was a thing of evil, whether it be man or animal. The Devil Cat of their legend was a beast of unrivaled bloodlust that thirsted to kill, kill, kill. When it died, its spirit lived on to continue killing, and to this day Tukaduka mothers sometimes warned their children not to be out after dark or the Devil Cat would get them.

Two Knives had not taken the legend seriously, until now. He hoped for another glimpse, but the creature had disappeared. It had been looking right at him, so he saw no point in trying to hide. Instead, he descended to the lowest limb, hung by an arm, and dropped.

The cat didn’t show itself.

Two Knives put his back to the trunk. He would have a clear target in front, and the cat could not get at him from the rear. But as more time passed and
the shadows lengthened and nothing happened, it occurred to him that the Devil Cat might be waiting for dark to fall. At night it would be hard to see it, if not impossible. He would be at the beast’s mercy.

Two Knives glanced down the valley. Should he fall prey to the cat’s claws, his family would be next. If he was to make a stand, why not make it where it mattered most? His feet acquired wings. He flew along the tree line, and off in the grass there was movement. He didn’t understand why the Devil Cat didn’t attack, but he was glad it didn’t. He ran and ran. His legs hurt and his chest ached, but he didn’t stop. He ran farther than he had since he was a young man of twenty winters.

Dove Sings and Bright Rainbow were not in sight, but Elk Running was behind the lodge pleating a grass rope.

“Go inside!” Two Knives shouted. “Go inside quick!”

Elk Running did not ask why. Two Knives had taught his children from an early age the importance of doing as he told them in times of danger, and Elk Running obeyed.

The waving grass kept pace with Two Knives. He flew around to the front of the lodge and reached the elk-hide flap just as Dove Sings was coming out with her own bow in her hands.

“What is wrong? Why did you send Elk Running inside?

Two Knives did something he had never done before; he pushed her and barreled inside after her. Quickly, he lowered and tied the flap, knowing full well it wouldn’t stop a mountain cat the size of the black one.

“What is it?” Dove Sings asked in rising alarm.

“Devil Cat,” Two Knives said.

She looked at him as if she thought he couldn’t possibly be serious. “What are you talking about?”

Two Knives didn’t take his eyes off the flap. He stepped back and drew the bow string to his cheek. “A black cat as big as two tawny ones. It killed Fox Tail, and now it is after me.”

“Fox Tail is dead?” Dove Sings swayed and her hand rose to her throat.

Elk Running and Bright Rainbow shared her shock. The boy recovered first and came to his father’s side with his bow ready. “We will kill it together, Father.”

Two Knives was going to say no and tell the boy to move back, but two arrows were better than one. “Everyone be still.”

Outside their lodge, complete silence fell. It was so quiet that Two Knives could hear the hammering of his heart. He was afraid for his family. He was very afraid.

Then, with awful slowness, the elk hide bulged inward. Only a little way, then stopped. Two Knives could not tell whether it was the Devil Cat’s head or a paw. He was rigid with dread and his lungs would not work. He imagined the cat ripping through the hide and springing on them and tearing right and left with its claws and teeth.

Bright Rainbow gasped.

The hide was bulging again. The Devil Cat pressed harder, but the tie held and the hide only gave a hand’s width. The cat expressed its annoyance at being thwarted with a snarl. The bulge went away.

Two Knives aimed at where the cat had been
pressing. His arrow would penetrate the hide. With luck it would also penetrate the cat’s skull. He drew the string as far back as he could without it breaking. Barely breathing, he held the arrow steady. His arm began to feel the strain. The hide didn’t bulge. He was focused on the spot where it had been and only on that spot. Dove Sings said something, but he did not hear what it was. The hide still didn’t bulge. His shoulder hurt, but he refused to slacken the string. He willed his arm to hold it steady. Had the Devil Cat left? he wondered. The string was digging into his fingers, but he didn’t loosen his pressure on the arrow. Then suddenly the hide bulged and he went to release, but Elk Running’s bow twanged before his and the arrow struck the hide slightly to the left of the bulge, missing the head and causing the Devil Cat to draw back and vent a shriek of fury.

“I think I hit it!” Elk Running exclaimed.

Two Knives very much doubted it, but he kept his doubt to himself. “You did fine, son.” He let up on his own bow for a few moments to relieve his arm, then drew the arrow back again. Another long wait ensued. The hide stayed smooth. After a while Dove Sings came up and put a hand on his shoulder.

“It has gone.”

Two Knives doubted that, too. To find out, he lowered his bow and edged to the flap and undid the tie enough to peer out. The trampled area in front of the lodge was clear. The cat could be crouched on either side or in the high grass.

“Do we go after it, Father?” Elk Running asked.

“We do not.”

“But it killed Fox Tail.”

“One death is enough.” Two Knives secured the
tie and went to the fire and sat facing the hide and put the bow at his side, the arrow still notched.

Without being asked, Dove Sings brought the water skin over and offered it to him. “What is your plan?”

“We will stay in all night. If it has not come back by morning, then maybe it is safe.”

“And if it does?”

“We will do what we can.”

“You have the lance,” Dove Sings reminded him.

Two Knives had forgotten about it. The summer previous they had gone over into the next valley after elk and come on an old camp made by a hunting party. He’d found a lance near the embers of a fire and by its marking recognized it as Shoshone. The tip and about half an arm’s length had broken off and whoever owned it had left it. He’d brought it back and sharpened the end. It wasn’t as long as before, but it was sturdy and thick and made for a good weapon in close quarters.

Dove Sings brought it over and laid it on his other side.

“Thank you.”

Elk Running was pacing. “Maybe it will bleed to death,” he said.

“You should sit and rest,” Two Knives advised. “It will be a long night.”

“I am not tired.” Elk Running gestured angrily. “I wish Fox Tail were here. I will miss him.”

Two Knives closed his eyes and bowed his head, remembering.

Dove Sings touched his cheek. “How bad was it?”

“Bad.”

“Do you think he hurt the Devil Cat before it killed him?”

Two Knives hadn’t considered that at all. “Possibly,” he said. There had been a lot of dried blood, which he had assumed was his son’s.

“Would you like to eat?”

Two Knives was famished, but the idea held no appeal. “Maybe later,” he answered.

Bright Rainbow was sitting cross-legged with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. She sniffled and said quietly, “Fox Tail was a good brother.”

Two Knives nodded at her and at Dove Sings, and Dove Sings went to Bright Rainbow and draped an arm over the girl’s shoulders to comfort her.

“Fox Tail was a good son, too.”

Bright Rainbow looked up, her face gleaming wet. “Why did he have to die? It is not right.”

“Death comes to all of us, little one,” Dove Sings said. “We never know the day or the manner.”

“But
why
?”

“You might as well ask why does the sun shine during the day and the moon rise at night. Death just is.”

“I do not understand why it has to be.”

Two Knives said, “There are many things in life that we do not understand. If we dwell on them, we will be sad. The important thing is to live the best we can and be as happy as we can and let the rest take care of itself.”

Elk Running stopped pacing. “Listen!”

From the side of the lodge came a growl. The Devil Cat went on growling as it moved to the rear of the lodge and the growl faded.

“It has gone into the forest,” Elk Running guessed. “We should go after it.”

“You would not say that if you had seen it,” Two Knives told him. “It is not like a normal cat.”

They had enough firewood to last all night. They slept lying close to the flames, Dove Sings in Two Knives’s arms, Bright Rainbow in hers. In the distance wolves wailed and coyotes crooned and once a brown bear roared, but their valley was still.

Two Knives did not sleep well. He would doze and wake with a start and then doze off again. This made two nights he had not gotten much sleep. Toward dawn he sat up, stiff and as tired as when he had lain down, and eased clear of Dove Sings and over to the hide. He took the lance. Quietly, he untied the hide enough to look out. It was too dark yet to see anything. He retied the hide and went back and waited for the others to rouse.

They had not slept well either. Dove Sings had shadows under her eyes. Bright Rainbow’s eyes were red. Elk Running yawned and scratched and scowled at the world.

“I did not hear the cat all night, Father. It must be gone.”

“We will go see,” Two Knives said.

“Now?” Dove Sings said. “Why not wait until the sun is all the way up? That way it cannot take you by surprise.”

“It took Fox Tail by surprise,” Two Knives said, and was sorry he did when she flinched as if she had been struck. He strode to the flap. “I will go first.”

“Be careful,” Dove Sings said.