Conquering Horse (7 page)

No Name saw his father gesture in sign language. “Whistle his call, my son. He has his certain call. Like the gopher’s.”

But No Name for once had his own idea on how to catch Lizard. He went softly through the herd, careful not to make any quick moves. He whispered his horse-catching song, one he had yet not told his father about:

The black gelding continued to avoid him, sliding out of sight behind a roan gelding, then a pair of dun-gray colts, then a painted mare. Close around No Name reared staring hammer-heads. Nostrils fluttered. Tails like falling fountains wavered and trembled above him.

No Name continued to pinch the handful of red clover lightly. In a winning way he repeated his song. Still Lizard kept slipping away, keeping the bunch between himself and his pursuer.

No Name stopped and considered. It was easy to see the horse was wild again. They had let him run too long after the operation.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Redbird still gesturing from the edge of the meadow. “Use his whistle. Like the gopher’s.”

No Name ignored his father again. He stood very still in the midst of the herd. In the bright sun iridescent shimmers glinted over the sleek coats of the blacks and bays. There was also such a luster of brightness on the fresh green grass that No Name had to narrow his eyes to slits against it.

After their first smell of him, the horses slyly grazed away from him, cropping once here, cropping once there, each time a bit farther along, so that at last he was finally left standing alone in a wide empty circle. A couple of the farther horses with seeming casualness stopped a moment to water. The smell of horse urine was soon strong in the grass.

Again he pinched the sweet clover leaves, pinched until his brown fingers were stained with green juice. And gradually, as the scent of the sweetness sharpened and luxuriated away from him on the soft wind, very slowly, hobbled Old Wise One crowhopped toward him. She was used to getting tidbit treats from his father.

She came close, her old black gristle nose reaching for the clover, snuffing loud. He let her have one leaf. She tasted, then hopped up to nibble the rest out of his hand. He toyed with her rubbery lips, withholding the leaves, whispering his horse song,
“Horse, you are mine.” All the while he slyly watched where Lizard drifted, trying to hold the crushed clover leaves in such a way that the wind would carry their scent in his direction. The other ponies followed the old mare’s lead and gradually came up close too, slowly filling the circle again, until at last they all were massed tight around him, blacks, grays, sorrels, duns. His black braids were of one piece with the great tumbling of raised black tails and erect black manes.

Finally Lizard, not to be left out, drew near too, though with his ears down and his head still snaky.

Looking past the round red rump of a bay, No Name had a good look at Lizard’s new nose. The scar had healed over. A pair of gray-black patches lay where once nostrils trembled. The two long gaps gave the black gelding’s nose the curious look of a pair of halved willow flutes.

Suddenly, as he softly whispered his incantation, “My song is clever and my hand is sure,” No Name let fly with the lariat. The rawhide rope uncoiled neatly. The loop circled once around, slowly, like a hoop about to fall, and then like a long arm it caught Lizard around the neck before he could rear back. Instantly, very swiftly, No Name whipped his end of the rope half around his body and leaned back, sideways, anchoring himself on the ground. Horses exploded away from him as if he had suddenly turned into a raging grizzly. There was a bouncing of round rumps and a thudding of hooves. Tails popped. There were wild snorts and quick screams.

Lizard bounded backwards too, high on his rear legs, front hooves pawing the skies; then he came down and let fly at the skies with his rear hooves. He broke wind, then darted to one side. No Name hung on, leaning back almost to the ground. His feet slid through the thick lush grass. Twice his feet hit piles of horseballs and exploded them in an arc. Then his heels caught in a gopher hole. Quickly anchoring himself in it and leaning back, he held.

Lizard shook his head back and forth, so furiously his neck
cracked. He shuddered from stem to stern. Suddenly he rolled completely over on the ground and came up bounding in a great lifting spring. Then he backed again, all four legs working, like a dog trying desperately to back out of a hole, choking on the rope. Each jerk only made the slipknot grip him tighter. A low frenzied wheezing gurgled in his throat.

Horse and man hung balanced. The rawhide rope hummed between them. Lizard’s tail stood out straight. His eyes burned balls of hate at No Name. His new nose-holes pulsed with a sobbing noise so that he resembled a huge catfish thrown up on land.

No Name sung his song, quietly, soothingly.

Lizard broke sideways with a wonderful leaping bound. He ran around No Name tight on the lariat. But the lasso at his throat slowly gripped him tighter and tighter. It cut his breath until he again had to stand still. Then, shaking his long black mane a last time, looking sadly at all the others in the herd who stood around him at a distance with heads and tails lifted in wondering sympathy, he suddenly let down. The rope fell slack and No Name eased up.

After a wait, No Name began to work slowly hand over hand up the rope. He grunted deep from his chest, making powerful horse medicine talk. “Hroh. Hroh. Hroh.” He rolled his shoulders and head in a slow hunching rhythm. He fixed the black horse with half-lidded magnetic eyes. Still sobbing for breath, Lizard stood as one charmed, rooted. Hand over hand No Name moved up. Gradually his monotone “hroh, hroh, hroh,” changed to a low sibilant “shih, shih, shih.”

Finally he touched the horse’s mouth. He let Lizard smell his fingers a moment. Then, leaning forward, he breathed a few deep breaths into the open nares. Lizard still stood as one caught in a trance. In another moment, with a sure turn of his wrist, No Name flipped part of the lariat around Lizard’s lower jaw and had the horse in control. He sprang on Lizard, bareback, leaned
ahead to ease up the choking loop, then, whistling low, touched his heels to the horse’s flanks. Lizard responded, docile.

No Name rode up to his father, smiling.

Redbird smiled too. “I see my son has forgotten how to whistle like a gopher.”

“I taught him a new song instead, my father.”

Speaks Once turned to his stub of a son. “You see? Here is a child who has first listened to his father and then has gone and done it his own way.”

White Fingernail’s lips bubbered. His eyes flickered with envy. Then his eyes steadied and his glance shifted to No Name’s chest. “There are some I know who have not yet cried in torment.” “Enough,” Redbird said. “We will now have the race. Will White Fingernail ride Swift As Wind?”

At that a smile flashed over White Fingernail’s face. “I will.”

While they waited for Lizard to catch his breath, Speaks Once and Redbird fell into a talk about horseflesh. Speaks Once was envious of Redbird’s big herd. He had but fifty to Redbird’s two hundred, though the fifty made him the second most wealthy man in the band. Speaks Once secretly hoped that his son would prove to be a brave and lucky horse-raider so that he could build up his herd. Speaks Once was often heard urging his son to go out on raiding parties. He also secretly hoped that No Name would continue to be without a vision, at least until he and his son had built up a wealth comparable to Redbird’s.

Speaks Once asked Redbird if he had any horses to trade.

“What have you to give?” Redbird asked mildly, looking aloft.

“In my lodge lies folded a buffalo hide. It has white hair. It is wakan. I will give it for Swift As Wind.

Redbird considered a moment; finally, as if with reluctance, shook his head.

“With the white hide tied around his belly the gray stallion will breed many war horses invulnerable in battle.”

Again, as if with reluctance, Redbird declined it.

“The white hide will help the gray stallion father many spotted colts.”

Redbird pushed out his lips to show he didn’t think much of the notion.

There had been an argument in the council over the white skin. It was the custom of the Yanktons to offer the skin of a white buffalo to Wakantanka. It was considered a bad thing to keep such a wakan hide as a private possession. Many in camp believed it was due to this sacrilegious act on the part of Speaks Once that so few spotted colts had been born to the Yankton mares the past year. The Yanktons desired paints, because, besides being showy, they blended leopard-like into the landscape.

Speaks Once next pointed to a lively sorrel grazing nearby. “I have this to give for a thin mare.”

Redbird looked; considered; shook his head.

“The sorrel holds his head very high. He throws his feet forward as he walks.”

“But his tail is too broad. Also his veins are coarse.”

“He has a white spot in his left eye.”

“But his hooves are also white and soft. And his withers have sores.”

“Sores?” Speaks Once cried. His thick-lipped face darkened over. He was always one to bristle when it was suggested he was cruel to his horses. Yet it was true. He had more than once out of whim deliberately ridden a horse to death. Further, he had little mercy for horses who developed saddle sores. “It is the sores of the fly that bites deep that you see. Many horses have them.”

Redbird looked back at his own herd, and fell silent. It was easy to see that the deep-biting flies were partial to the flesh of one certain herd.

Speaks Once caught the look. To emphasize what he said he kicked over a pile of buffalo droppings lying underfoot. “Bull dung does not lie. It is as I have said.”

Redbird still held silent.

Then Speaks Once turned to his son. “Hold the race horses for us until we return. I wish to show the chief and his son a certain thing.”

White Fingernail took hold of the reins of both Swift As Wind and Lizard. “I will, my father.”

Speaks Once led the way, Redbird and No Name following. Speaks Once walked with a heavy rolling tread, quite pigeon-toed like a woman. Redbird and No Name walked lightly, toes straight ahead. They circled a village of prairie dogs. They stepped across a swale, using toggly hummocks as stepping stones. They skirted a rocky ledge covered with coils of pricklepear cactus.

As they approached the herd of Speaks Once, the nearer horses shied off. A few snorted danger. The hobbled bell-mare, a bay with many scars over her back, began to crowhop away.

“Whoa now, whoa now,” Speaks Once called in a coaxing voice.

At this the bell-mare took fright and began to two-hop as fast as she could. The others moved off with her.

“Friends, stop!” Speaks Once roared. “Respect your master!”

The horses continued to hurry away, cropping quick here, catching a tuft of grass quick there, always away from Speaks Once.

Redbird paused, hand to his chin, reflecting.

This only angered Speaks Once the more. He began to bellow in a loud hoarse voice. His face blackened over. White flecks gathered at the corners of his heavy lips. “Hold up, you low-bellied dogs! Come here! Respect your master!”

Redbird said, “Friend, perhaps we should call White Fingernail and let him catch them.” Redbird turned to No Name. “My son, return. Watch the racers.”

“Friend, wait,” Speaks Once said, choking down his pride. “Hold up. We will let them get used to our smell. Perhaps we are strange to them today.”

The three men stood.

Then, as they waited, proof of Redbird’s claim appeared before their very eyes. A fine upstanding gray gelding, some fifteen hands high, came running through the herd, head down. Bluishgreen magpies chased after the gelding in slow graceful flight, long tails dipping, wings flashing white. They came crying raucously. The gelding saw the men and stopped. Before he could slide away to one side, the harrying magpies settled on his back and began pecking at his saddle sores. The young gelding lifted his head to the skies, sideways, and screamed. Then all of a sudden he leaped straight up, all four hooves leaving the ground, with the rear legs highest and lashing up at the flapping magpies. Long black tails fluttering, squawking, the magpies merely rose a circle higher, just out of reach. Then, the moment he hit earth, they resettled on his back, digging in with their stout claws. The gelding shuddered. His skin rippled long slides of hair. But the magpies were dug in deep and weathered the shaking. Once more the gelding screamed. Then he tried rolling over on his back, and finally and at last succeeded in brushing off even the most dogged of the magpies. Released from the harrying long-tailed furies, he wriggled back and forth on his spine, scraping himself hard on the ground, feet up like a playing puppy, crying with pleasure at the relief, eyes turned up so far into his head the orbs showed white. All the while, however, the bluish-green magpies waited above him, hovering, cawing in displeasure. At last he struggled to his feet. He had barely shaken off the dust, rippling his skin fore and aft, when with screams of delight the magpies dropped on him again, digging in with their claws, pecking at tatters of gray-purplish flesh, gorging.

Redbird looked at No Name and No Name looked at Redbird. “This is what happens when saddle sores are left untended,” their eyes said.

Speaks Once hated them for their look.

Redbird said quietly, “It is said that if such sores are covered with the paunch of a buffalo and then sprinkled with ashes, the magpies will leave.”

Before Speaks Once could react to the remark, there was a whistle from White Fingernail across the meadow, sudden, shrill, full of warning. It was a whistle in imitation of the jaybird and it meant, “I see the Pawnee!”

Instantly all three whirled. Without question they headed on the dead run for White Fingernail.

No Name, running with an easy lightness, was by far the swiftest and was the first to reach White Fingernail.