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Authors: James Welch

Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (11 page)

BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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He watched Kills-close-to-the-lake skirt the fire to hand White Man’s Dog the sack of meat. Rides-at-the-door and his two other wives were talking among themselves on the far side of the fire. Only Running Fisher saw the girl touch his brother briefly on the shoulder. Only he saw the quick glance and the quick looking away, the flush on White Man’s Dog’s face. But when he looked back at the other group, he saw Striped Face looking directly at him, a small grin on her face.

 

On the third day of his journey, White Man’s Dog stood on a bluff overlooking the trading house on the Bear River. It was built in the shape of a rectangle, a series of squat buildings arranged around a central trading area. The log structures looked heavy and dark to White Man’s Dog. In the dusty yard five men stood around a pair of horses laden with robes. He recognized Riplinger, the trader, and Old Horn of the Grease Melters. Another Napikwan, a young one in a black hat and dark clothes, squatted a few feet away. Two young Pikunis, perhaps Old Horn’s sons, stood with their arms folded.

 

An arrow’s arc to the east lay the camp of the Grease Melters. In the late morning sun the lodges looked as white as doeskin. Most of them were made of the white man’s stiff cloth. White Man’s Dog knew that some of the Lone Eaters would trade robes for the cloth. It was easier to piece together, would shed the water well and was lighter than the blackhorn hides. He had smelled the cloth once and it reminded him of unclean bladder. It made him smile to think of these Grease Melters living in their bladders on the edges of the trading forts. He would not want the Lone Eaters to live this way.
He had visited three bands, the Black Doors, the Small Robes and Crow Foot’s people. He had not talked to Little Bird Woman but he had looked her over at the evening meal. She was chunky, attractive and lively. Her round face seemed always to be split with laughter. When she saw White Man’s Dog looking at her, she would lower her head and play shyly with her puppy. Then, a moment later, she would be laughing and joking with her brothers.

 

She would make a good wife, thought White Man’s Dog as he looked down on the trading house. She is cheerful and strong and handsome in a stout way. He knew that she had worn her elkskin dress just for him, and he wondered if his father and Crow Foot had already talked of a union between their families. The idea didn’t exactly displease him, but it added a complication he was not prepared for. If his parents had their minds set on her, he would dishonor them by not obeying their wish. And he had his heart set on Red Paint. But he had only seen Red Paint from a distance and in his imagination. It was as though she had no substance, no life other than her work. I have not even heard her voice, he thought. Had she spoken that time he had delivered the meat and she surprised him? Even if she had, he wouldn’t have heard the words. Kills-close-to-the-lake had more presence in his mind than did Red Paint. Even now, he could see her body, the way she moved, the expressions on her face, her voice, even the scent of her that made him light-headed. For a year they had lived in the same lodge and had almost avoided each other, yet he knew her as well as he knew any woman. In spite of the shame he felt, he smiled ruefully. I don’t know any woman, he thought, not the way a man should. I am a nothing-man and all the women see it. They think I am only lucky to take the horses from the Crows.
As he swung up onto the gray horse’s back, he thought of the vow he made to Sun Chief, the vow to sacrifice at the Sun Dance if he returned from the raid safely. He had returned and so he would fulfill that vow. But perhaps Sun Chief would favor him in another way, would allow him to become a good man to be trusted and respected by all the people. He was sick to death of being the puny wretch who desired the touch of his father’s wife, his own near-mother. And he was sick of himself for thinking these thoughts while he had a duty to perform. He kicked his horse forward, and the horse was surprised by the force of the kicks.

 

By the end of the fifth sleep, White Man’s Dog had visited all the bands but two. He camped alone this night, for he was tired of feasting and talking. He lay in his robe beside the small fire and studied the stars. It was a clear warm night and he could see the Seven Persons, the Poor Boys, the Person’s Hand and Big Fire Star. He looked at them and felt better. He was not even hungry. But he was disappointed to learn that day that Mountain Chiefs band had crossed the Medicine Line into the Real Old Man country, for he had wanted to see if Fast Horse was among them. Owl Child and his gang, when they were not out raiding, lived with the Many Chiefs. And Crow Foot had said that Owl Child had killed two woodcutters on the Big River near the Hole-in-the-wall. If Fast Horse had joined the gang he would be in trouble, as would all of Mountain Chief’s people. Perhaps that was why the Many Chiefs had slipped across the line.
He lifted his hands as if to touch the stars. He remembered the stories told by his grandfather of the origins of the constellations. He had been young then and it all seemed simple. There were only the people, the stars, the blackhorns. Now his grandfather was dead and the Napikwans were pushing their way into the country. What would happen to the Pikunis? His father was right and wise to attempt to treat with the Napikwans. But one day these blue-coated warriors would come, and White Man’s Dog and the other young men would be forced to fight to the death. It would be better to die than to end up standing around the fort, waiting for handouts that never came. Some bands, like the Grease Melters, had already begun to depend too much on the Napikwans. Ever since the Big Treaty they had journeyed to the agent’s house for the commodities that were promised to them. Most of the time they returned empty-handed. And more and more of the Napikwans moved onto Pikuni lands.

 

White Man’s Dog looked up at his hands. His grandfather had said those many winters ago that if you went to sleep with your palms out, the stars would come down to rest in them and you would be a powerful man. Many summer nights White Man’s Dog had tried to go to sleep this way, but his arms grew tired before the stars could come. He lowered his arms and rolled over. The fire was down to embers, glowing softly in the moonless night.

 

The Black Patched Moccasins was the last band that White Man’s Dog visited. They lived below the bend of the Bear River, where it turned south to enter the Big River. At one time, only three winters ago, they had been the most powerful of the bands. Their lodges were always full of meat and robes, and the men and women were cheerful and generous. Their leader, Little Dog, was head chief of all the Pikunis. He was a trusting man and chose to befriend the Napikwans, visiting them frequently in their Many Houses fort on the Big River. They, in turn, treated him well, for they considered him a valuable go-between who was able to control the more hostile of the Pikunis. For a while that was true, but the demands became too great and things ended badly.

 

Now the people of the Black Patched Moccasins were distrustful of any who were not of their band. For protection they had continued to ally themselves with the other bands, but their hearts had turned cold.
White Man’s Dog rode through their camp and his eyes were rounded by what he saw. Pieces of fur and bone were scattered among the lodges, as though the people had dragged animals into camp, ate what they wanted and left the carcasses to the dogs. The smell of rotting flesh made White Man’s Dog’s eyes water. To his right he saw a lodge that was in danger of falling over. The loose skin covering was ripped and stained. A naked child, holding a piece of fur against its mouth, watched him ride by.

 

At last he saw the lodge he was looking for. It was painted black around the top to resemble the night sky. Yellow clusters of dots in the black represented the constellations. A broad band around the bottom was painted ocher to suggest the earth. And around the middle a procession of otters headed toward the entrance. This was the tipi of Mad Plume, who had dreamed the Otter Dream in his youth and who now presented the Otter Medicine bundle at the Sun Dance.
“Haiya! Mad Plume! It is White Man’s Dog, son of Rides-at-the-door of the Lone Eaters. I have come with news.” He looked around him and saw several of the people standing in front of their lodges. A large yellow dog snarled at him, but his master hit him on the head with a stick and the dog slunk away.

 

Mad Plume came out of his lodge and stood before White Man’s Dog. He was a little man, and old now, but he stood with a straight back, cradling his long-pipe in his arms. The bowl was made of the red stone used by the Dirt Lodge People many sleeps to the east. The stem was covered with strips of otter fur.
“White Man’s Dog. You look familiar. I don’t see well anymore.” He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, you used to sit with the other children and listen to my stories—during the summer ceremonies. Yes, you used to ask me questions.”
White Man’s Dog knew Mad Plume did not recognize him, but it was true that he had sat and listened to the old man’s stories. Many children did.
“Tell me, how is Rides-at-the-door? I hear he has acquired himself a new wife. You’re not her son? Get down off your horse and sit with me. Woman!” he called back to the lodge. “Bring tobacco. This young brave and I wish to smoke.”
As if that were the signal, the people came forward and sat around the two men. They looked thin and listless and their clothes were shabby. The man next to White Man’s Dog stunk, even though the river was only a stone’s throw away. In some ways they reminded him of the stand-around-the-fort Indians he had encountered at Many Houses and the settlement at Pile-of-rocks River, always with their hands out when the Lone Eaters came to trade. But since the incident involving Little Dog, these Pikunis seldom journeyed to the forts. They distrusted the Napikwans as much as they distrusted the other bands.
“Ah, you see how it is, young man, with the Black Patched Moccasins. I watch your eyes and I see you wonder. Now I will tell you how it is and how it came to be.” Mad Plume’s wife came with a pouch of tobacco and his short-pipe. She took away the medicine pipe. “Once we were a strong people, first to join the hunt, first to take horses from our enemies and first to take the war road against them. Many an enemy trembled when he saw the Black Patched Moccasins ride down upon his village. But we were also a generous people, loyal to our friends, helpful to those who needed it. We were always friendly with the Napikwans, for we held nothing against them. And they, for their part, always treated with us fairly. Little Dog was even awarded a medallion from our White Father Chief in the east. He knew that the Napikwans possessed greater medicine than the Pikunis, for they came from that place where Sun Chief rises to begin his journey.
“One day the white chiefs came to our camp and showed us a new trick. It was during the new-grass moon. They scratched at our Mother Earth’s breast and buried seeds and pieces of plant flesh beneath her skin. Many of us were surprised, but Little Dog told us it was a good trick, for soon good things to eat would grow. The white chiefs wished us to quit the trail of the blackhorns and to grow the good things to feed upon. Little Dog and some of the others moved down to the settlement on the Pile-of-rocks River and tried to live like the Napikwans. They grew these good things and they even herded the whitehorns. But it took a long time for these plants to come up, and when they did they were scrawny things. The whitehorns were stringy and didn’t taste like real-meat. After a winter of being hungry all the time, we came back and hunted the blackhorns. Even Little Dog came back after a while.”
Mad Plume gestured around him.
“Why grow those scrawny things when the roots and berries grow so abundantly around us? We thought the Napikwans would leave us alone, for we had tried their way and it was no good. Still they wanted us to give up the blackhorns and plant the seeds. Little Dog tried other ways to make the Napikwans happy. When their horses were run off, he would find them and bring them back. He told our people not to kill any more of them. He told the seizer chiefs that he would deal harshly with those Pikunis that offended them. He wanted peace between the Pikunis and the Napikwans, and that was his downfall.” Mad Plume chewed on his lower lip. A spasm rippled across his cheek. When it passed, he said, “The rest you know. He had brought some of the Napikwans’ horses back to them and was returning to our village when he was jumped and killed by some of his own people. He was betrayed by some of his own people, and that is why the Black Patched Moccasins have become so distrustful.”
White Man’s Dog looked into the wrinkled face and tried to read the emotions there. For while the lips were curved into a smile, the eyes had become wet. It was as though Mad Plume remembered Little Dog both fondly and sadly. Yet there was something else there, something in the way the lips trembled, as though he wanted to say something more. White Man’s Dog remembered the reason given for the killing of Little Dog, and now he wondered if some part of Mad Plume not only understood that reason but perhaps condoned it. The killers of Little Dog felt the head chief had put the interests of the Napikwans before those of the Pikunis. It was he who betrayed the people.
“We are a leaderless people now. I have tried my best but I do not inspire the young ones to listen. I am too old and I do not possess the strength. Look around you, White Man’s Dog, do you see many of our young men? No, they are off hunting for themselves, or drunk with the white man’s water, or stealing their horses. They do not bring anything back to their people. There is no center here. That is why we have become such a pitiful sight to you.”
BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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