Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (42 page)
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Authors: James Welch
BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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As he galloped the black buffalo-runner down the valley, he knew this scene had something to do with the yellow skin and the designs. It was the same weather, the same kind of day that the seizers rode north. He felt the fear and guilt rise and spread throughout his limbs and he was almost too weak to stay up. He had seen the design. “Why didn’t I warn them?” he cried. “Why didn’t I tell them?” The wind was in his eyes and the hoofbeats filled his ears and he pushed the horse even faster.
As he reined in, the horse skidded almost to his rump, and the people began to scramble back against the cutbank. Only the children, a boy and a girl, stood and watched him.
“It is Fools Crow—of the Lone Eaters! I have come to help you!” .
White Crane Woman had fallen when her companion deserted her, but now she stood, her eyes dark and hard.
“White Crane Woman! You know me. Our families visit during the Sun Dance encampment.” Fools Crow slid from his horse and ran to her. He caught her just as her energy faded and gently lowered her to the frozen ground. The old ones and the other woman slowly approached. The youth still clung to the side of the cutbank.
“What has happened to you?”
No one spoke. They stood and Fools Crow saw the fear return to their eyes. Then he heard the harsh thumping of the horses as the other hunters rode up. “They are also Lone Eaters. They too come to help.” Fools Crow knelt beside White Crane Woman. The hem of her dress was bloody. He raised it and saw the bullet wound through the fleshy part of her calf. The skin was red and shredded where it had exited. Fools Crow had no medicine but he did have a piece of soft-tanned skin in his war bag. As he wrapped the wound, one of the old ones, a woman, knelt beside him and spoke. “It was the seizers. They sneaked up on us while we were still asleep. There was only a little light, just enough to see by, and they shot us in our lodges. Pretty soon, our people were running in all directions and still they shot us. Many of us are killed. We managed to slip away, down to the river, and run away below the cutbank. But one of the greased shooters found this one’s leg. We ran away and now you have found us.”
“The others—are they all dead?”
“I do not know this. We had to run and keep on going. But the shooters were still buzzing until finally we were beyond hearing.”
The young woman who had been helping White Crane Woman came forward and squatted beside the old woman. Her eyes were flat with shock.
“They killed Heavy Runner,” she said. She pointed with her lips to the youth who was now leaning back against the cutbank. “That boy there saw him fall.”
Fools Crow tied off the bandage, then looked up at the two women. He was surprised at the calmness with which they related their news. They could have been telling him about a relative’s visit or a berrying party. But as he looked into their eyes, he saw that the immensity of what had happened had left them numb.
“Where is your camp?” he said.
“In the big bend below the Medicine Rock. It is not long by horseback.”
Fools Crow stood and turned to Sits-in-the-middle, “I will go there and see for myself.”
A look of hesitancy came into Sits-in-the-middle’s eyes, as though he too might be expected to go to the massacred camp.
“These people can find shelter in Crow Foot’s camp,” said Fools Crow. “They will need you to lead them.”
“Yes, that is true. We will take them on the packhorses and wait for you there.”
First there was the smoke, only slightly darker than the gray air. It rose from behind a bluff where the river curved to the south. The sun was behind it, and it looked orange and sharp-edged.
Then the black horse smelled it and stiffened beneath his rider. It was a smell not of smoke but of burnt things, and the smell was heavy in the air. Even though the bluff stood between the horse and the smell, he stopped, his shoulders and forelegs trembling. Fools Crow kicked the horse in the ribs, but still he did not move.
“You know what we are about to see. You have known for a long time, Heavy-charging-in-the-brush.” Fools Crow let the horse settle down. “We will see it now. We will take heart from Wolverine, who always faces into the wind.”
The horse moved forward and soon they were around the bluff and they saw the remains of the camp. There were no fires visible but the smoke was darker and thicker. It rose from many places until it became a cloud above the south bank of the river. As they moved up to higher ground, Fools Crow began to pick out the blackened lumps that emitted the smoke. Between the lumps, the snow was still white. Then a small wind blew the smoke toward him and the snow became yellow and dirty and the smell hit his nostrils, the smell of burnt skin. Fools Crow could almost taste it, and it was smoky and pleasant in his mouth. He began to weep and still the horse moved forward.
Then they were at the edge of the camp and the black lumps were lodges that had been burned. A dog lay in the snow a few paces away. Most of his hair had been burned off and his tongue was black against the white teeth. Then Fools Crow saw something else lying in a patch of blackened, melted snow. He kicked the horse in the ribs and moved toward it. The sight made his stomach come up against his ribs. It was an infant and its head was black and hairless. Specks of black ash lay in its wide eyes. Fools Crow fell from his horse and vomited up the handful of pemmican he had eaten earlier that morning. He was on his hands and knees and the convulsions wracked his body until only a thin yellow strand of saliva hung from his lips. He stayed in that position and gulped hard until the wracking stopped. He wiped his mouth and eyes, then stood. And he began to pick out the other bodies. Most of them had been thrown onto the burning lodges but they were not all black like the infant. There were scraps of clothes that hadn’t burned. There was skin and hair and eyes. There were teeth and bone and arms and legs. One old woman lay on top on one of the smoking lumps, only the underside of her skin dress burned. Her feet were bare. Fools Crow, through his tears, saw the purple welts on her legs where she had slashed herself a long time ago in mourning a lost one.
As he wandered from smoking ruin to ruin, he didn’t really know that his eyes had quit seeing, that his nose no longer burned with the smell of death. He didn’t even notice that his feet had gotten wet from walking through the trampled melted snow. On the far side of camp, he kept moving until he came to a downed big-leaf. He sat slowly, carefully down on the smooth trunk and buried his face in his hands. He rubbed his eyes and there were no more tears, not from the smoke, not from his heart. He sat for a long time, tired and numb, until his mind came back and he remembered where he was, what he had seen. Still he was in no hurry to open his eyes.
Then he felt something on his knee. He opened his eyes and saw a red puppy standing before him, one paw on his knee, the other swiping the air as though he wanted to play. He reached out and touched the head and ran his hand all the way down to the tail. The puppy yipped and bit the air. Fools Crow smiled and the puppy sat back and scratched himself behind the ear.
Through the smoke, on the other side of the camp, Fools Crow saw a figure standing motionless, looking at him. It was a man and Fools Crow’s heart quickened. He had only his knife in his belt. But the man was dressed in the way of the Pikunis. The knees of his leggings were black. Fools Crow stood quickly and the puppy tumbled away, yipping in fear. Then another figure emerged from the brush behind the man. It was an old woman, bent with age. Two more figures came forward, and they too were old.
When he reached them, Fools Crow saw that the first man was hardly more than a youth. He was tall but his shoulders slumped. Fools Crow looked at the others and he recognized Black Prairie Runner, once a man who had led many war parties against the enemies. His eyes were cloudy now and his long fingers, clutching a blanket over his shoulders, were bent and stiff.
“They drove off our horses,” he said. His words were mild and flimsy in the cold air.
“Are there others? Others who survived?”
“Our horses are all gone. You see”—he waved his free arm around them—“there are no horses.”
Fools Crow looked questioningly at the others.
The young man stepped forward. “I am called Bear Head. My father was also called Bear Head, and he was killed by Owl Child some winters ago.”
“Yes,” said Fools Crow. “They argued over who had killed a Cutthroat in battle. It is said that Owl Child made a false claim.”
“All there knew that the Cutthroat was my father’s kill. But Owl Child was crazy and he killed my father rather than admit his falsehood.” Bear Head stood straighter. “I will have my revenge.”
Fools Crow was moved by this small introduction, for he knew Bear Head would have no satisfactory revenge. Even revenge had been slaughtered.
“I met some of your band, escaping up the river. The other hunters I was with have taken them to Crow Foot’s camp. They told of the seizers.”
“It was the seizers. I left camp before first light to get my horses. I had planned to do some hunting this day and I needed pack animals. The herds were down near the foot of Three Persons. I picked out four animals and was leading them back when I saw some movement on that low ridge over there. It was still dark down here but there was a faint light in the sky behind the ridge. At first I thought it was a pack of little-wolves up there, thinking to look for scraps around the camp. But then one of the shapes stood and I knew it for a man. I became frightened and began to run toward camp, leaving my horses where they stood. But just before entering that stand of spear-leafs, I saw the dark shapes before me. There was a man behind each tree. Then all at once came the thunder and fire of the big guns. I froze against a tree. All I could do was listen and pray that the thunder would end, but it went on and on until it was light enough to see the cloud of blue smoke from the guns. It hung in the trees and drifted toward me. I could taste it in my mouth. When I looked up at the ridge I could see hundreds of fire flashes through the smoke. But I still could not see my village so I began to run around the seizers in the trees. They were so intent on their work that they did not look around. Finally I was on the lower side, near the river and I saw my people—” Bear Head stopped, and Fools Crow could see his eyes wander beyond him to the remains of the camp. He seemed to focus on one of the smoking lumps. Fools Crow turned and saw that it had burned nearly to the ground.
“Besides my mother, I had three near-mothers and four sisters and a brother. Now they are gone from me. I do not know where they have gone—they did not have time to prepare themselves.”
As Fools Crow stared out at the smoking ruins, he began to notice what was missing. The mention of Bear Head’s mothers and sisters made him realize that he had seen only the bodies of old men and young boys among the women.
“Where are the men?” he said. He turned back to Bear Head. “Where are the warriors?”
One of the old women lifted her head. She had been watching the red puppy, who had followed Fools Crow and now lay with his head between his paws.
“Off hunting,” she said. “There was no meat in camp, and a Pikuni does not live without meat.” She said this fiercely.
“Those who weren’t dead or sick with the white-scabs,” said Bear Head. He looked uncomfortable. “I myself was leaving for the hunt this morning.”
“A Pikuni does not live without meat,” muttered the old woman.
Bear Head looked down at her. “Curlew Woman’s two sons were to go with me. Now they are burned up.”
Fools Crow could envision the hunters’ return. Whether laden with meat or empty-handed, they would see something they would mourn for the rest of their lives.
“Where are the seizers now?” Fools Crow’s voice was sharp. Anger welled up within him, an anger that was directed at the futility of attempting to make the seizers pay. He had always thought that the Pikunis could fight these hairy-faces. He had prepared himself for this fight, he was ready to die a good death to defend this country. Now he knew that his father had been right all along—the Pikunis were no match for the seizers and their weapons. That the camps were laid low with the white-scabs disease did not even matter. The disease, this massacre—Sun Chief favored the Napikwans. The Pikunis would never possess the power to make them cry.
He listened to Bear Head’s weary voice recount the details of the massacre. “Curlew Woman says Heavy Runner was among the first to fall. He had a piece of paper that was signed by a seizer chief. It said that he and his people were friends to the Napikwans. But they shot him many times. By the time I could see the camp, there were only a few running, trying to escape. They were all cut down by the greased shooters. There were several lodges already on fire. Some of the seizers were aiming at the lodge bindings. Many of the lodge covers fell into the fires within and started burning. Then there was no more movement and I heard a seizer chief shout and the shooting stopped. By that time there was too much smoke in the air, dark smoke from the burning lodges, blue smoke from the shooting. The seizers waited awhile, then they came down from the ridge and out of the trees. I felt naked and exposed beside the river, so I crawled into some brush here behind us. The seizers walked among the lodges, at first quietly; then they became bolder and began to talk and laugh. Whenever they saw a movement from under one of the lodge covers they shot at it until it moved no more. They rounded up the bodies and threw them onto the fires. Those lodges that stood untouched by fire were ragged with bullet holes. The seizers cut the bindings and set these lodges on fire. They took what they valued and threw all the rest onto the fires. They drove off all our horses.”
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