Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (16 page)

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Authors: James Welch

BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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White Man’s Dog watched her run away from him. His mind was tangled with confusion. That white world she described was familiar to him. He had been there and had seen the white river. the white ground. And he had seen a dark creature and, yes, it had been Wolverine. Then he remembered the animal with white fur that had come to drink. It was a slender, lovely animal and he had watched it drink from the white waters. He had been in that world but he hadn’t seen Kills-close-to-the-lake.
He felt in his small war bag that hung around his neck and he pulled out the white stone, and as he caressed it, he sang softly:
“Wolverine is my brother, from Wolverine I take my
courage,
Wolverine is my brother, from Wolverine I take my
strength,
Wolverine walks with me. ”
White Man’s Dog didn’t know how or why, but Wolverine had cleansed both him and Kills-close-to-the-lake. He had also given White Man’s Dog his power, in the white stone and the song.
PART TWO
11
EARLY IN THE MOON of the burnt grass, not long after the Sun Dance, Red Paint sat outside her lodge resting her back. She had just fleshed a green blackhorn hide, and now it lay stretched to dry in the sun. She looked at the glistening white skin and it reminded her of the puffballs that grew in the valleys of the Backbone. She wished she was there now; the rivers were clearer and colder, the smell of pine was always sharp in the air—and the chokecherries would be ripening. Only last summer she had been a girl and had accompanied her mother and some other women up the Two Medicine River to pick the tangy cherries. It was there she had seen the round mushrooms and had picked one the size of her fist and held it against her cheek. It gave off a dry musky odor, and its skin was as smooth and hard as her own thigh. Except for the short dark whiskers on the bottom, it was as nearly a perfect thing as she had ever seen. She had taken it home to her father’s lodge, but soon it became leathery and collapsed in upon itself. One day she squeezed it and it split, sending out a puff of green smoke.
In six days White Man’s Dog would ride with the war party against the Crows. As she rubbed her neck and looked off to the Sweet Grass Hills, she felt again the dread that came whenever she allowed herself to think. She had tried to stay busy, but even a momentary lapse in concentration allowed that dreaded thought to steal through her whole body. She knew that war parties were part of a man’s life and she knew that she should be proud that White Man’s Dog had been selected to count coup on behalf of her father, Yellow Kidney. But it was because of Yellow Kidney that she felt so fearful. In her mind the Crows had grown big and fierce. She knew of their cruelty, and she was afraid White Man’s Dog would become foolish in his desire to avenge her father. Last night he had told her he would look for the lodge of that treacherous enemy, Bull Shield, and bring his head back for Yellow Kidney to spit upon. She knew this was the way a man prepared himself for a war party. All the men were talking this way; she had heard her own father tell of cruelties he would inflict upon the enemy—but that was in the past now. She just wanted her husband to be safe.
Her husband. Once again Red Paint marveled that she was married and keeper of her own lodge; even more she found it unbelievable that she had come to love White Man’s Dog with such heart. Now when he was away hunting, she could hardly wait for his return. And when he did return safely, she offered up silent prayers and cooked such big meals he complained that he was getting fat. Sometimes at night they would sleep away from camp under the stars, naked in their robes. They told ghost stories until both were frightened; then they made love as though the night were made only for that. Afterward, she would tell him more stories and make him laugh at her wild inventions. But the way he held her when he slept made her a little afraid—for she would never be able to live without him, without this love.

 

And now he was restless and he would not be at peace until he had counted war honors against the Crows. Last night he had struggled and cried out in his sleep, and she knew that he was frightened.
Red Paint unrolled another green blackhorn hide and began to stake it down. As she pounded with her stone hammer, she thought again of the chokecherries in the mountains and wished they were there now, just she and White Man’s Dog. And maybe a little one inside of her. For the first time in four winters, she had missed her time to bleed. It was far too early to tell anything, but in her heart she was sure she was with child. She looked toward the lodge and saw a butterfly flitting against the stretched cover. It landed on the tied-back entrance flap. It was small and white with black-tipped wings. “Sleep-bringer,” she whispered to herself.

 

“Daughter! Why is it you daydream when all the other women are dressing blackhorns? Let me help you.” Heavy Shield Woman took the stone hammer from her daughter and quickly staked down the hide. It had been sixteen sleeps since she had been the Sacred Vow Woman, and she was recovering her strength. Red Paint looked at her face and in the bright sunlight it looked shrunken, the lines around her eyes and mouth deeper, the hollows of her cheeks shadowy. Even her strong brown fingers looked almost bony. But she struck the stakes with great force, driving them easily.
“You look different to me, Mother. Have you not recovered from your fast?”
Heavy Shield Woman stopped pounding and looked across the skin at her daughter. “It is the same as giving birth,” she said. “One expects a little change. Someday soon I will appear as I was before, but I will always be different—in here.” She thumped her chest.
“I want you to be strong and happy.” Red Paint bent over the skin and began to work her fleshing knife over the surface, scraping away the dark meat. She wondered what the white people would make out of the robe. Once she had asked her father and he said they made big shirts and leggings out of them. He said they dressed like bears in their big towns because their skin wasn’t used to the cold. But he often joked with her, so she didn’t know if he was telling the truth. Yellow Kidney’s lodge had once been filled with laughter.
“How is my father today?”
“Better.” Heavy Shield Woman scraped a long thin strip of flesh from the hide and tossed it in the trampled grass behind her. A fawn-colored dog darted in, snatched it up and ran away. “Just this morning he made a harness for his right hand. He tied a short piece of skunk rib to it and is going to try to fire his gun with that. He can hold it, all right. He just needs a trigger-puller.”
Red Paint sat back on her heels. A sudden breeze filled her nose with the scent of dry sage. “Is he going to be all right?”
“These changes take time. Already you see he is trying to become the hunter he once was.” Heavy Shield Woman busied herself with a thick strand of meat. “He is a tough man, your father.”
“But I mean—inside, in here, his heart.”
Heavy Shield Woman did not look up. “He is not the same man. He no longer laughs, he doesn’t play with your brothers or instruct them”—she ripped the scrap of meat loose—“he does not touch me if he can help it.” She felt a stab of guilt, for she did not mind that part. Since becoming a Sacred Vow Woman—even before that—she had lost the desire to hold her man close. In some ways he had become a child to her. She looked after him the way she cared for Good Young Man and One Spot.
“What can we do?” said Red Paint. Her voice was a wail. “My poor mother, we must do something for him! We must restore him!”
“Do not weep, child. I have talked with Mik-api. You know his magic. He assured me that he can drive this bad spirit from Yellow Kidney, but he must have your father’s cooperation. So far your father prefers to dwell in his own thoughts, to pity himself as though he were the only one whom misfortune struck.”
Red Paint almost flinched from her mother’s bitter words.
But Heavy Shield Woman laughed. “At least he has his hair back. I have been rubbing his head with tonic from the sharp vine. Now it is almost as thick as it once was. But he does not eat. I can’t force the food down his throat, can I?”
Red Paint looked off toward the lodge. The butterfly was gone. Soon it would be too hot to work, and she looked forward to going into her lodge alone, to lie down and listen to the silence. She was tired and longed for the cool breezes that whispered down the valleys of the Backbone. She longed to be there with her husband and to lie in the lodge and listen to the cold water rushing over the stones. “I think I am growing a baby inside me,” she said. She meant to add that she felt it only in her heart, but as soon as she said it, she saw the tears in Heavy Shield Woman’s eyes. Her mother dropped her scraping knife and scrambled across the skin to kneel before her daughter, hugging her in her thin arms. She hugged Red Paint and wailed to the sky. Red Paint felt the tears on her own cheeks and suddenly felt happier for her mother than for herself. Perhaps a baby would bring them all closer again. Perhaps laughter would again ring out in Yellow Kidney’s lodge. She looked again at the place where the butterfly had landed. If there was a baby. But she knew it in her heart, and she would tell White Man’s Dog when he returned that evening.

 

The young warriors of Crow Foot’s band galloped their horses through and around the camp. They whooped and shot their guns into the air. The puffs of smoke from the barrels were carried to the north by a strong south wind. Most of them were shirtless and their bodies were painted with war paint. Crow Foot himself wore his flowing war bonnet. His face was painted red with three black crow tracks on each cheek. He pulled to a halt before the lodge of Three Bears. “Haiya! Three Bears! Are there any Lone Eaters brave enough to take to the war road? My young men say yours are puny and would do nothing but slow us down.”
Three Bears stood in his finest regalia. He too wore the flowing headdress of the Parted Hairs. His war shirt and leggings were of soft elkskin decorated with quillwork and beads. He raised his long-pipe. He was as excited as his young men. “Ah, Crow Foot, your braves are children against mine. I myself, old as I am, stand over your strongest man. If it weren’t for the length of the ride, I would accompany you and count coup on those insects myself.”
Crow Foot laughed. “Where’s my friend, Rides-at-the-door? I suppose he is too old too.”
Again the warriors galloped through camp, shouting insults and making fierce faces. But by then several of Three Bears’ men had started beating on a communal drum with sticks and singing wolf songs. The songs had no words, only the attacking cries of the bigmouths. Some of the Lone Eaters had spears and shields and feinted at the riders as they galloped by.
Rides-at-the-door trotted toward the two men, wiping dust from his eyes. His war paint was simple, a blue streak from his forehead to the tip of his nose, but his blackhorn headdress made him look big. The curly hair of the topknot had been dyed gray.
“Welcome, Crow Foot. I see you do not teach your young ones to save their shooters.”
The two men embraced. “It is a good time,” said Crow Foot. “Tonight we make noise. When the sun rises we will join the others who assemble at the camp of the Small Robes. Does your son ride with us?”
“Both of them. Running Fisher hasn’t slept for three nights. He lies outside the lodge and watches Seven Persons take the night journey. As for White Man’s Dog, he looks forward to many war honors. He is no longer a boy.”
“I saw him dancing from the Medicine Pole. He acquitted himself well.” Crow Foot looked at his friend shrewdly. “I hear he is married too.”
“Yes, sometimes these things happen. He is married to Yellow Kidney’s daughter, Red Paint.” Rides-at-the-door glanced into Crow Foot’s face. He hoped his friend wouldn’t feel dishonored because White Man’s Dog had rejected his daughter.
Crow Foot watched the mock attacks for a moment. Then he laughed. “You know that crazy daughter of mine, Little Bird Woman? That nothing-girl is going to marry into the Grease Melters. Three Suns’ oldest boy. I tried to talk her out of it, but she told me Three Suns is a great chief. I don’t know about her.”
Rides-at-the-door smiled. He felt relieved, for Little Bird Woman was going to marry into a very important family. Three Suns was next in line to become head chief of the Pikunis.
“This talk of women depresses me. My sits-beside-me woman gives me nothing but trouble these days,” said Three Bears. “Now gather up your important men and bring them to my lodge. We will smoke the pipe. I myself do not see anybody out there worth smoking with.”

 

The booming of three different drum groups carried far into the night. Wolf songs, scalp dances and honoring songs competed with each other. The girls of the Lone Eaters sang celebration songs. Then they sang a love song that broke up into giggles. Inside the men’s society lodge, the older warriors feasted and counted war honors. Before the group broke up, Three Bears passed the ceremonial pipe and offered a prayer for the party’s safe return. He burned a braid of sweet grass and fanned the purifying smoke through the lodge, then declared that the pipe was empty. The men filed out, some to sleep with relatives or friends, others to stretch their soft-tanned rolls out under the stars. From one of the lodges came the last sad notes of night song. Then the camp was quiet beneath a yellow half-moon.

 

Red Paint lay beside her husband, her right arm and leg slung over his wide body. His right arm lay beneath her, his hand stroking the small of her back.
“Are you happy for us?” she murmured against his chest.
“Yes, very happy.”
“You have been quiet these last days. You think of the war trail.”
“I think of many things, but making war on the Crows is uppermost in my mind,” he admitted.
“You will be successful, I think. You are the strongest of the Pikunis.”
White Man’s Dog slapped her butt and laughed. “Yes, but am I stronger than all the Crows?”
“You are the strongest man I know,” she said. “Stronger than the blackhorns too.”
“You speak with the tongue of crawls-along-the-ground, nothing-woman.”
Red Paint smiled in the darkened lodge. From far off, she heard the barking and howling of Kis-see-noh-o. Soon he was joined by his brothers, and the night was pierced by their mournful howls. “The little-wolves cry to us, my husband. Are they afraid?”
“They cry to Night Red Light. She shows half her face and they want to see the rest. They are only happy when she smiles down on them.”

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