The Elk-Dog Heritage (12 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Elk-Dog Heritage
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The winter was
not exceedingly harsh, but neither was it entirely mild. There were several storms, when Cold Maker roared across the prairie, spreading his thick robe of white behind as he passed. Sun Boy, though pushed far to the south, fought back each time. The rays of his torch warmed and melted the drifted snow and in a few days it was possible again to move cautiously around the immediate area.
There was no imminent danger of attack at this time. It would be far too dangerous to travel. The Head Splitters would not risk being caught in the open by a whimsical thrust on the part of Cold Maker. Besides, the enemy would be well aware, Heads Off reflected grimly, that the People had nowhere to go. His diminished band had no alternative course. They must merely sit and wait, attempting to conserve their scanty food supply, and wait for the inevitable attack.
One old woman apparently cracked under the stress. It was a gray afternoon, with Cold Maker's heavy dark clouds moving threateningly from the northwest. Soft flakes of snow were already falling, and the People were hurriedly gathering the last few sticks and chips for the cooking fires before withdrawing into their lodges.
Three children came running from the fringe of trees along the stream.
“Rabbit Woman has walked into the prairie!”
The woman had been gathering sticks with the youngsters,
they related, and had moved somewhat farther down the stream. Suddenly, she stopped, carefully placed her little bundle of fuel on the ground, and walked away, singing to herself.
“Show us where this happened,” demanded Heads Off.
The children led a group of warriors and anxious relatives to the area.
A pitiful pile of sticks lay mutely on the ground beside the trunk of a massive old cottonwood. The searchers peered into the gathering gloom of the storm, but no moving figure could be seen. The wind was rising, and snow fell more thickly. It would be out of the question to organize a search with darkness coming on and Cold Maker howling for victims.
Coyote addressed the children, who stood wide-eyed and frightened, peering into the snowy dusk.
“What was Rabbit Woman singing?”
“It sounded like the death song, Uncle.”
Coyote nodded, and laid a comforting hand on the shoulder of the small girl. Through the mind of Heads Off flitted the words of the death song.
“The grass and the sky go on forever,
But today is a good day to die.”
The strange haunting song was used seldom, only when one felt that death was imminent. Occasionally a warrior would sing it in battle, as an indication that he intended to fight until he died. Heads Off felt it strange indeed that an old woman would use the death song at this time.
“Come,” said Coyote, “let us go home.”
The little group solemnly turned and shuffled back toward the lodges.
“Bring the firewood,” Coyote said to the children. They divided the little pile of fuel and followed, each carrying a small burden. Heads Off fell into step beside Coyote.
“Rabbit Woman went mad from the worry, Uncle?”
Coyote looked sharply at the young chief, then spoke gently. “No, Heads Off. It is one of the old ways of the People. Rabbit Woman gives herself to the prairie, so there will be more food for the young.”
They walked on in silence. Heads Off now began to understand the old woman's use of the death song. It was her way of fighting for the survival of the People. Just as a warrior might sing as he gave his life in defense of the tribe, Rabbit Woman had gone proudly to her death, singing.
“The grass and the sky go on forever,
But today is a good day to die.”
She had performed the ultimate sacrifice for her people. Heads Off would think of this brave woman's contribution many times during the coming moons.
As food became scarcer, the People became thinner and weaker. The best of the available provisions were assigned to the children. This, Heads Off had learned, was the way of the People. The younger generation, the hope for the future, must be preserved at all costs.
Eventually, supplies dwindled until most of the band was relying on the dogs. There had been a time when Heads Off had thought he would never be hungry enough to enjoy dog meat. Now it proved a quite acceptable staple.
Still, by the end of the Moon of Snows, even dogs were becoming scarce. The Moon of the Hunger promised to live up
to its name. Remaining supplies were carefully hoarded, to be parceled out as necessary. Some families, less prudent than others in the use of their supplies, began to suffer.
Occasionally, the desperate situation would be eased by a deer kill as an isolated animal wandered into the area looking for a place to winter. However, by the Hunger Moon the animals were no longer moving around. It would be extremely unusual to have more opportunities to obtain venison.
Animal parts that would have once been discarded or tossed to the dogs now became a source of subsistence. Thin watery soups boiled from hide and offal at least filled bellies for a short while.
Still, the situation was becoming desperate. There were scarcely enough dogs left to reproduce, although the possibility of enough future for the Elk-dog band to need such foresight seemed remote.
“Heads Off, we must eat the elk-dogs,” Tall One whispered as they snuggled for warmth in their sleeping robes one night. She had placed her children in their robes after a very meager meal. Owl, of course, still fed at breast, but she was afraid her milk was diminishing. Heads Off had given special attention to her nutrition, contriving ways to give her part of his own food. She loved him for it, but it was not enough. The girl knew that she was losing rapidly. Owl cried for more when she had given him all the milk her undernourished body could produce.
Her husband held her tightly.
“I know.” He hated the decision. Not only were the esthetics of eating horse meat foreign to his upbringing, there were other considerations.
The great changes in the culture of the People, which had come about in such a short while, were totally derived from use of the horse. The use of the elk-dog had enabled so many advantages
that it was questionable if the People could return to the old ways.
To be more specific, suppose that they ate the elk-dogs to survive the winter. Suppose further that by some miracle they were able to withstand the onslaught of the Head Splitters in the Moon of Greening. With no elk-dogs, how could they hunt? And, equally important, if they had eaten the elk-dogs, there would be no way to replace the animals. Some breeding stock must be preserved, at all costs.
Ultimately, however, the decision must be for day-to-day survival. A council was called, and the matter discussed. The animals would be sacrificed one at a time, as needed. First would be the geldings, incapable of reproduction. Heads Off held the vain hope that before all the neutered animals were used, something would occur that would save the mares, and the foals they might be carrying.
The first of the horses was slaughtered the next morning. At least, for a time, bellies would be full, and children would not cry out in the night from hunger. When this food was gone, the next animal would be sacrificed.
As it occurred, however, only two of the elk-dogs had been slaughtered before events of overriding importance changed the situation completely.
The day came,
as the People knew it must. The lookout on the hill first spotted the approach of the enemy. He raised a long cry and lighted the signal fire as a warning to all, before he retreated to the village.
The Head Splitters were in force, more in number than three men have fingers and toes. They paraded arrogantly, circling and wheeling their elk-dogs in mock combat on the open prairie beyond the brush barricade.
But there was no attack. All maneuvers stopped well beyond range of a long bowshot. They spent most of the day showing themselves and their strength, and then calmly made camp a few hundred paces down the stream. Heads Off rankled in sheer frustration. Briefly, he considered a sortie after dark, but quickly abandoned the idea. It would never do to risk even a few warriors. All would be needed in the final attack.
The People carefully posted sentries in the woods to prevent a sneak attack by infiltrators on foot, and retired for the night. Heads Off slept little. He could think of no other course of action that they might take now. There was nothing but to wait. Still, how hopeless the plight of the Elk-dog band seemed. Again and again, he blamed himself for poor leadership. Why had he ever consented to act as chief?
It was shortly after full daylight that the charge came. The enemy had been charging and wheeling in insolent display when suddenly a semblance of order emerged out of the milling mass.
Apparently at a shouted signal, every Head Splitter reined his horse around. The ground shook with the thunder of hundreds of pounding hooves as they swept down on the ill-equipped People.
Elk-dog men seized weapons and sprinted toward the flimsy brush barricade.
“Watch the woods!” Heads Off shouted. This might be a diversionary attack.
The mass of yelling enemy continued to thunder down on the village, their falsetto “
yip-yip-yip
” swelling in the morning stillness. Now they were almost within bow-shot. A few nervous defenders loosed arrow shafts, only to see them fall short.
Suddenly the charging mass wheeled, turned, and came to a stop, laughing, pointing, and joking among themselves. They rode slowly back toward their camp, leaving the defenders limp and frustrated. Heads Off quickly looked for another point of attack, but there was none.
The enemy had simply withdrawn. Then the young chief began to see. It had been merely a feint, a bluff, to place the People under further stress. The Head Splitters were playing with the doomed village, twisting their fears and doubts. He remembered a cat that he had watched toying with a mouse, long ago in his childhood so far away. The enemy were merely enjoying the opportunity to wreak slow vengeance on the People. Again, he despaired that any would survive to leave this campsite.
For the rest of the day, the People remained on the alert. Everyone carried weapons, and the Head Splitters were constantly watched.
No remarkable events occurred. Several times, a handful of the enemy would ride close to the brush barricade, but stop just short of bowshot. They appeared to be mostly eager young men, who contented themselves with shouting challenges and obscenities.
They were obviously under instructions not to engage in actual contact.
The young warriors of the People could not refrain from answering the taunts, but managed to restrain themselves from any overt action.
A young man of the enemy rode near and shouted at the defenders, punctuating his words with sign talk.
“We will kill you, and then your women will learn how to bed with real men!”
A single arrow arched from the camp of the defenders, hung high for a moment before falling short. The Head Splitter laughed.
Long Elk answered for the People. “I see no real men. I see only cowards who are afraid to come within bowshot!”
The exchange of insults continued through the day at intervals, but both sides knew that it was just talk. The situation remained unchanged. There was little sleep that night, but no attack came.
Next morning, the Head Splitters carried out another mock charge. The terrifying rush again terminated just short of bowshot, and ended in laughter, jokes, and obscenities toward the defenders. The ritual was repeated the following morning, and the People began to relax over the lack of any follow-through. Coyote, White Buffalo, and others cautioned not to become careless.
The following day the enemy changed tactics somewhat. Daylight showed no massing of armed horsemen. The People, alert for trouble, nevertheless started about their morning routine. Women took waterskins to the stream, and cooking fires produced their hanging layers of white smoke above the lodges.
Suddenly a woman's voice rose in indignation.
“
Aiee!
” she shouted. “The water is fouled!”
It was true. Others tasted their waterskins or cupped a hand to the stream. Once clear and sparkling, the creek was a murky, muddy gray-brown in color.
It was easy to see the situation. The Head Splitters had simply taken their horse herd upstream and held them for the night in or near the water. Heads Off could recall the flat grassy meadow which they had probably utilized. Now the water was fouled with particles of mud and bits of manure. The situation was becoming more desperate.
The People were experienced in scarcity of water from past dry seasons on the plains. They methodically scooped shallow basins in the sandy streambed, and allowed seeping water to fill them. At least it was wet, and the taste was better than that from the stream itself.
Heads Off, chewing on a tough stringy strip of horse meat that evening, was afraid that the solution to the water problem had been too easy. The enemy would continue to herd their elk-dogs upstream, and the water would become worse. He could imagine how the constant flow from above would pollute every back-eddy. The stench, in a few days, would become unbearable, and even the seep water undrinkable. If, indeed, any of the People were still alive in a few days.
The daily massed charge still occurred, but the time now varied. Sometimes it was shortly after first light, sometimes when Sun Boy stood high overhead. Once it was when the last fading rays from Sun Boy's torch threw long shadows across the plain. It appeared that the enemy realized the effectiveness of unpredictability.
To add to the stress, a sentry was killed in the woods one night. The young man was struck down so quietly by the telltale war club that it was not until morning that his body was discovered.
The event produced more sleepless nights. It was easy to imagine that everyone was individually under the observation of the Head Splitters. In the mind's eye, it was easy to see an enemy face peering from every shadow. The People became more depressed, and a feeling of helplessness settled over the camp.

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