Night Thunder's Bride: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 3 (32 page)

Rebecca could little understand such a custom and she asked Blue Raven Woman about it. Blue Raven Woman had given her a strange look before asking, “Do you truly not know?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“The white buffalo is a sacred thing to the people, given to us by Sun. When it is killed, the skin is tanned in the best way possible and is given to Sun to be hung on a post at the Sun Dance. Once it is given to Sun, no one—not even an enemy tribe—will touch the skin again. It belongs to Sun.”

Rebecca listened in silence, making no comment, even though she knew she could never share these beliefs. She did, however, have another question. “But why are all the warriors vying with one another as to who will be the one to kill it?”

“It is because the warrior who kills it receives special favor from Sun; his tribe, too. All his friends and his family will have luck,” said Blue Raven Woman. “So you can see that each warrior will want to be the one to take it, that he might be the one to give it to Sun as an offering for himself, for his people.”

“And no one will ever touch the skin after it is given in this…ceremony?”

Blue Raven Woman shook her head.

“Never?”

“Medicine men are allowed to cut strips off the skin so that they may wrap their medicine pipes in it or make a band for their heads during ceremonies, that Sun might shine more favorably upon them. But that is all.”

“I see,” acknowledged Rebecca. “Will we hunt no other animal besides the white buffalo, then?”

“We go to hunt many buffalo. All the people go. There will be many buffalo killed and many full stomachs this winter because of this. It is a good thing that is happening for the people. I cannot remember a time when buffalo have come so close to the Sun Dance camp, and never one with a white buffalo. This is a special Sun Dance camp, I think.”

“
Aa,
yes,” said Rebecca, “you could be right.”

“
Aa,
I think that I am. But come, we must catch up with the others. Do you see that already people are leaving to follow the herd? We will take this smaller lodge of my mother’s instead of your larger one, that we might carry more meat back to camp.
Poohsap-oo-t,
come, and let us take the lodge poles down.”

Rebecca nodded and, standing off to the side, grabbed hold of the pole Blue Raven Woman worked over, and within a matter of minutes, the lodge had been dismantled and placed travois-style upon a pony.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Night Thunder had painted his face and chest blue and white. He dotted white onto his cheeks, forehead, and chin and circled them with blue, the design given to him in a vision. He stood at the side of his pony, painting his mount, the final act in preparation for the hunt. He would pay tribute to his best buffalo pony by depicting it in much the same manner that he had himself.

He had already sketched blue and white circles around the horse’s eyes. Now he was attending to the horse’s flanks, creating the same blue and white pattern that he wore upon his own body.

Their tribe had been on the buffalo’s trail for a little over a sun, or a day, and finally, the herd in sight, they were ready to begin.

Rebecca stood behind Night Thunder as he crouched down, drawing a series of blue circles and streaks down his pony’s leg. Though he was more than aware of her presence near him, he said little to her, his attention centered upon the symbols he painted.

In due course, however, she spoke to him, saying, “Blue Raven Woman told me that hunting the buffalo is dangerous.”

Night Thunder didn’t answer at once. He continued his work, rising up onto his feet to draw another circle around one of his pony’s eyes. After a moment, he said, “Often a warrior’s life is in danger, even in camp. Never do we know when and from where the enemy could strike at us, and we must always be prepared. Would you rather not have food for the winter?”

“It isn’t that,” she said. “It’s only that…well, could we not find a better, safer way to get the food supplies that are needed?”

He thought for a moment. “In the past,” he said, “we have had a
piskun,
where the people run the buffalo over a cliff or into a pen where the animals are slaughtered. But we do not like to do this too often, too many are killed this way—more than the people can use. And even in luring the animals into a
piskun,
there is danger. Better it is that we hunt and kill the buffalo this way, that our friends the buffalo may continue to flourish upon our land.”

“But there are so many of them; surely you needn’t worry about how many buffalo you kill, do you?”

Night Thunder shrugged. “Our wise men say change is coming. And our wise men tell us that we must take from the buffalo only what we need.”

From out of the corner of his eye, he observed Rebecca stare away from him. The ripple of a warm chinook breeze blew in, and he watched her as the wind suddenly swept into her face, pushing back her hair. It reminded him of how she had looked a few nights previous, as she had lain beneath him, and his breath caught in his throat.

She seemed to want to continue to argue with him, though, and she said, “Promise me that you will be alert today, that you will not take any unnecessary chances.”

“Chances,” he mimicked, “what are these ‘chances’?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, placed her hands on her hips and said, “You know very well what chances are.”

He grinned as he gave her a quick look. Had she been more observant, she might have noted a twinkle reflected in his eye before he began to talk. But he could tell that she was preoccupied, so he said, “I will try not to ride too many bulls, that you should worry about me.”

“Ride bulls? What bulls?”

Night Thunder gave her a wide-eyed stare. “Buffalo bulls.”

“Surely you jest.”

“What is this ‘jest’?” he inquired. “I do not know what this is, but
aa,
yes, have you never heard that the Indian must ride to its death every buffalo that he shoots—before the cow can be butchered?”

Rebecca turned her attention on him and gave him a weary gaze. “I have never heard of such a ridiculous thing.”

Night Thunder grunted. “An Indian cannot eat the meat of such a bull or cow that has not been ridden. Bad medicine,” he said, keeping his countenance serious. “Very bad medicine, indeed. Indians ride the cows all time. Must ride buffalo before we butcher them, or buffalo get mad at us and never return. People go hungry then.”

She gave him another suspicious look, but he hid his face from her so she would not be able to see directly into his eyes.

Someone called to him—Singing Bull—and Night Thunder handed his pony’s reins to Rebecca. He said, “I go now. Keep close to Blue Raven Woman, and stay away from the buffalo until they are killed and ready to be butchered.”

He turned to leave, but she caught his arm, staying him. “Night Thunder,” she asked, “do you tease me? About the buffalo?”

At last he smiled; he couldn’t help himself. But all he said was, “Ask Blue Raven Woman to tell you if I make joke or not. But see this lasso?”

She nodded.

“I catch many buffalo to ride with this.”

She rolled her eyes at him, and he laughed. “Watch carefully to see if we Indians ride these buffalo.”

“I do not want you riding them.”

“No?” He grinned at her. “Here, take this horse. He is my best buffalo pony. He knows what to do. You tell him to keep me safe and keep me from riding the wild buffalo. He will do it.”

Rebecca opened her mouth to say something else, but Night Thunder added, a note of humor in his voice, “Tell him in good Blackfoot. He understands not the words of the white man.”

“Humph,” Rebecca responded. But as she studied the horse, noting a look of unusual intelligence in its eyes, she said to it, “
Matsiw-ohkit-opii-wa,
he is the rider of a
fine
horse.”

She petted the pony’s nose, then in Blackfoot, said, “I’m making it your responsibility, now, to bring my husband back to me safe and unharmed.” She added, under her breath, “And keep him away from riding those buffalo.”

The pony whinnied softly as though he had understood each and every word, and Rebecca smiled.

Night Thunder sat several feet above the prairie, squatting down upon the lower edge of a butte. The warm air pushed his hair into his face, but he had tied its long strands back into three braids, two at the side of his face and one straight down his back. No jewelry adorned his appearance this day, nor heavy clothing—Night Thunder settling for breechcloth and moccasins alone, nothing extra to get in his way. The warming rays of Sun shone down upon him, the feel of them giving him courage. He waited for the signal to begin the hunt and as he sat, lit his pipe that he might wile away the warm day, his eyes ever scanning the horizon.

As he looked out upon the land, his heart expanded in his chest and he breathed in deeply. Everywhere as far as the eye could see were buffalo—so many, one couldn’t count them. The ever-present wind rushed by him, seeming to whisper something in its wake. But he could not understand the words, and he gave up trying.

A peacefulness settled over him. This was the home that he loved: the land, the wind, the thunder, the lightning. A part of him reached out to the ends of the horizon, and he felt himself expand, his thoughts gaining space so that they did not bother him so much. Thus he sat for quite a while.

He brought his gaze back, after a time, closer to the butte, and peered into the buffalo herds. Try as he might, he could not discern a white buffalo. There were simply too many of them and a white one would have faded into the herds and landscape.

He waited for the signal to be given so that he could begin the run on the herd. Not until that signal came could he or anyone else begin the hunt, lest they disturb the herd before all was ready. No one would be allowed to scare the animals before the proper time, sending them away. Such an action might leave their tribes with nothing—no meat and no winter stores.

To the southeast of him, he discerned a commotion and noted that several warriors had already begun the hunt.

“It must be the white buffalo,” he said to himself. No one would have begun the chase before the signal was given; not unless there were some unusual circumstance to cause it, and a white buffalo was circumstance enough.

The riders, the buffalo, were no more than dark specks to his eyes, yet,
aa
, yes, there it was, out in front of the hunters. The white buffalo.

Emptying his pipe and wrapping it up quickly, Night Thunder put it away and jumped onto his pony, setting it into motion and riding out in a quickened trot to intercept the herd. He would catch that white one.

It took him little time to maneuver himself onto a slight elevation in the land, which seemed to be near where the frightened buffalo would have to pass.

The wind blew in his face, carrying his scent away from the approach of the buffalo, and he knew the herd would most likely not get wind of him.

He took himself behind the slight elevation, dismounted, and crawling up to the top of the hill, peered over the hill. Patiently he waited…and waited.

The ground shook with the thunder of a thousand hooves coming his way. Still he waited.

Finally the buffalo were almost upon him and he ran to his horse, mounted it again, and sent it into a mad dash toward the herd of buffalo, his pony as excited as he, needing little if any whipping or direction.

Thump, thump
went the hooves of his pony, and with his intrusion into their midst, buffalo scattered everywhere. Still, guiding his mount with nothing more than his knees, he rode toward the white buffalo, that animal so quick, he could barely catch it. Onward, with more speed, his trained pony caught up to it, the horse bringing him close to the animal. With a quick bolt in toward the buffalo’s left shoulder, his mount gave Night Thunder a good shot at the animal.

Fluk
went his arrow, the tip of the steel-like blade sinking deep into the heart of the buffalo. Blood gorged from the animal’s nostrils, but the buffalo, as a species, were gallant, and though fatally wounded, would not give up so easily. The white buffalo rolled; it wobbled, mooed, and struggled valiantly before it stopped, finally falling over onto its side.

Night Thunder jumped from his pony and glanced around him, just in time to see Singing Bull running toward him.

Singing Bull? Had that been Singing Bull who had come upon him from over his shoulder? Was this even Singing Bull’s arrow lying here on the ground next to his?

Night Thunder had little time to think. Still, he knew what needed to be done.

Picking up Singing Bull’s arrow, Night Thunder pulled his own from the buffalo’s ribs, positioning the other man’s arrow in its place.

The young Indian brave rushed up to him. After only a moment’s hesitation, Night Thunder said, “Your luck is good this day, my friend. It was your arrow that brought down the buffalo.”

Singing Bull looked doubtful. But Night Thunder gestured toward the animal as though to say, “Look for yourself.”

Sure enough, Singing Bull glanced at the animal and could not deny the evidence. There was his arrow in the ribs of the white cow.

“It was my shot that brought down the cow? But I thought I had seen yours make the mark.”