Brave Warrior (10 page)

It took them a moment before they realized that Yellow Feather stood behind him, her cheeks
streaked with tears. She had a gash on her forehead and another at her temple.

“Mad Bear,” Yellow Feather said, as if that explained everything.

“Mad bear?” Felix repeated.

“Soldier,” Yellow Feather said, nodding.

Two more Native American boys joined them. They stared down angrily at Maisie and Felix.

“My village,” one of them said, and he swept his arms wide. “Destroyed.”

“Why?” Maisie cried.

“Revenge,” the light-skinned one said. “Grattan defeated near Fort Laramie last year, and Mad Bear cannot forget.”

He spit in the dirt before continuing.

“Army stupid,” he said. “This camp did not have anything to do with Grattan. Those people long gone. But they kill ninety innocent Lakota today.”

He shook his head.

“To you,” he said, his eyes on Maisie and Felix, “we are all alike.”

“No!” Felix said. “Not at all.”

But the boy was already turning from them.

One of the others spoke to him in quiet tones.
Yellow Feather joined in to speak for the twins.

Finally, reluctantly, he turned back to Maisie and Felix.

“Little Thunder and Yellow Feather insist I take you along,” he said, without even a hint of warmth in his voice.

“Thank you,” Felix said quickly.

“I don’t like the white settlers,” he said evenly.

“Uh-huh,” Felix said.

“They don’t understand us,” he said.

Felix tried to think of what to say, but the boy was climbing onto his horse already.

“They call him Curly,” Yellow Feather said.

Curly did not sound like a very scary name, but this boy was frightening, Maisie thought.

“His hair,” Yellow Feather added.

“Where is he taking us?” Maisie asked as two other boys arrived leading horses.

Curly himself answered.

“The Black Hills,” he said. “To my people.”

A
mong many other things that she considered on that long, hot day sitting behind Curly on a horse, Maisie wished she had paid more attention to the US geography unit in school last month. Every day, Mrs. Witherspoon had handed out xeroxed maps of different sections of the country, starting with New England and moving to the Mid-Atlantic states, the South, the Midwest, all the way to the Pacific Northwest. And somewhere on one of those xeroxed maps were the Great Plains states. To Maisie, they had looked like Legos, a series of big squares or rectangles, indistinguishable from one another. Now she was moving across those squares and rectangles toward the Black Hills, a place she vaguely
remembered Mrs. Witherspoon talking about. But what had she said about them? And where were they exactly?

Maisie sighed and shifted her weight. She’d had no idea how sore a person got riding a horse for all these hours. And Curly apparently was not a believer in stopping to take a break. Her father always stopped when they took family trips. He stopped for coffee and French fries and to read roadside signs and historical markers. He stopped to stretch his legs. Her mother, on the other hand, never stopped. “Why dillydally?” she would say. “Let’s just get there already.” “The journey is half the fun,” her father always answered philosophically. Maybe a difference like that was one of the reasons they got divorced. Maybe a person who enjoys the journey shouldn’t marry a person in a hurry. Maisie sighed again. She was a person who liked to take a break, she decided.

As if he’d read her mind, Curly suddenly stopped.

“Horses need water,” he announced.

“People need water,” Maisie muttered.

He gave her that look of his that told her he did not like her, not one bit. Then he led the horse down a small embankment to a river.

“Um, could you help me off?” Maisie asked him, peering down the great height of the chestnut-brown horse.

Curly scowled but offered his hand. She landed with a thud.

“Thanks,” she said, hoping he caught the sarcasm in her voice.

Maisie dusted herself off and watched as the others appeared over the hill. She was happy to see Felix, who looked as miserable as she felt, sitting behind Little Thunder.

“My rear end is killing me,” Felix whispered to her when he finally got off the horse.

“I know,” Maisie said. “How far do you think the Black Hills are, anyway?”

Felix shrugged. “They’re in South Dakota,” he said, as if that meant something.

Of course he’d paid attention to the US geography unit. His teacher, Miss Landers, at least made things interesting. Each student in his class got assigned a state, and they had to give an oral report and make a visual representation of it. Felix’s state was Alabama, and he’d used the state nut—the pecan—to create its shape. He’d loved his project, loved presenting all
the facts about Alabama: state flower, the camellia; state tree, the southern longleaf pine; state fruit, the blackberry; state capital, Montgomery. He’d played the song “Angel from Montgomery” on a continuous loop in the background. It was one of his father’s favorite songs, one that he played a lot in those days after they’d told Felix and Maisie about the divorce, before he actually moved out.

Felix tried not to think about that now. No divorce. No Alabama. In fact, what he wished was that his state project had been on South Dakota, because then he might have some idea about where they were going and when they might get there.

“South Dakota,” Maisie was saying. “The Black Hills.”

“I think the capital is Pierre,” Felix said hopefully. “But it’s not pronounced the way it’s spelled, like the French boy’s name. It’s pronounced like
peer
.”

He could picture Avery Mason giving the report on South Dakota, her beautiful hair glistening as she made the class repeat after her:
peer.

“I don’t think it’s even a state yet,” Maisie said. “We must be in 18…what? Fifty-something?”

“Alabama became a state in 1819,” Felix said.

“Big deal! We’re not in Alabama!” Maisie said, frustrated.

“I know, I know,” Felix said.

“The square states didn’t become states until the late 1800s,” she said. “Right?”

“Right.”

He tried to remember what else Avery Mason had said in her report.

“I think the state flower is a pasqueflower,” Felix said, suddenly remembering Avery Mason making them repeat that after her, too. “It’s like a buttercup,” he added.

“Great,” Maisie said. “I’ll be sure to look out for pasqueflowers while I’m there.”

Little Thunder passed a cup of water to Felix. As thirsty as he was, he couldn’t help but think about how that cup had been made from a buffalo’s horn. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take a sip. Relieved that it tasted like water and not at all like horn, Felix took another big swallow before handing it to Maisie.

Too soon, they were back on the horses, their arms wrapped around the boys’ waists, galloping across the Great Plains.

To Maisie, the ride across the Great Plains was about the dullest thing she could remember doing. The landscape was just grass and grass and more grass. Sometimes she would glimpse a herd of buffalo in the distance or see the smoke rising from a village of tepees. But those sights did nothing to alleviate her boredom.

Felix, however, grew to think the plains were quite beautiful. The sky seemed bigger out here. And closer, as if he could reach out and actually touch it. The blue was bluer than back home, a dramatic, breathtaking blue that he had never seen before. The way the sky met the grass seemed almost unreal, like he was living in a giant painting. Late in the afternoon, he watched as storm clouds gathered. Gray and tumultuous, they rolled across the sky toward Felix and the small party of travelers. Lightning split through the clouds and met the ground somewhere far off.

When the rain finally reached them, Felix found it uplifting. He had watched the storm gather itself and move across the sky. He lifted his face and let the rain fall on him. It was his rain, he thought. He’d
observed it as it developed and seen it coming toward him.

Soon, though, the rain stopped, and they were now on the horizon hills of craggy rocks loomed.

Felix wondered how Curly knew where to find his tribe. But he had no chance to ask him. In no time they were stopping at a village of tepees, and a man was running out of one to meet them.

“Father of Curly,” Little Thunder explained. “Worm.”

By the time they had gotten off their horses, Worm had arrived. He listened as Curly described in Lakota what had happened to Little Thunder’s village. His eyes were gentle as he studied Maisie and Felix, nodding as his son spoke.

“Worm is not a warrior,” Little Thunder told them. “He’s a shaman.”

“A what?” Maisie asked.

“An interpreter of dreams,” Little Thunder said. “And a healer.”

Curly had finally gone silent. He led the horses away, but Worm stayed put.

“Welcome,” he said to Maisie and Felix.

The fear that both of them had felt since the
attack that morning began to melt away in his presence.

“You are from the Holy Road?” he asked them.

Maisie shook her head no.

“No?” he said, surprised. “White settlers are growing in numbers there.”

He didn’t wait for them to say anything more but rather motioned for them to follow him into the village.

“You are lucky,” Little Thunder said. “The Lakota are tolerant people.”

The familiar smell of roasting buffalo meat greeted them. This time, Felix eagerly took some when one of the women offered it to him. He was hungry. He was tired. But mostly, he was safe.

“Psssst,” Curly hissed into Felix’s ear the next morning. “You come into battle with me.”

Felix’s eyes opened.

“Battle?” he said.

Images of the bullets flying overhead yesterday flooded his mind, followed by the bows and arrows shot the day before during the buffalo hunt.

“I don’t think so,” he added.

“You come with me,” Curly said. “Touch the enemy.”

“Really,” Felix said as Curly pulled him out from beneath the buffalo blanket, “I don’t want to touch anybody.”

Curly studied him a moment, then nodded. He went over to the other side of the tepee, and returned with buckskin leggings and a pair of moccasins.

“For battle,” he said, handing them to Felix.

He stood, waiting.

Reluctantly, Felix traded his yellow tuxedo jacket, black pants, and white shirt for the clothes Curly had given him.

“What’s going on?” Maisie asked sleepily.

“He wants me to go into battle,” Felix said, his voice trembling.

“Touch enemy,” Curly told Maisie.

“What enemy?” Maisie asked him.

“Comanche,” Curly said.

“Are you going to scalp them?” Maisie asked, sitting up now.

Curly kneeled beside her and made a circle with his hands.

“Scalps round, like the sun,” he said softly.
“Powerful, like the sun. We take scalp, we get power.”

“I…I don’t want to take anybody’s scalp,” Felix said.

Curly laughed. “Only take scalp of dead man,” he said. “We touch enemy.”

“You keep saying that,” Felix said, shivering without his shirt on. “What do you mean exactly?”

“More brave to touch enemy than to kill him,” Curly said as he got to his feet.

“It is?” Felix asked, unsure whether he should be relieved or not at this information.

“Shoot bow and arrow from very far away,” Curly said. “To touch enemy, you must be very close.”

Felix was definitely not relieved.

From outside came the sound of voices and horses.

“Time to go,” Curly said, slapping Felix on the back. “Time to count coup. Brave things that you do,” he added. “Coup. Every time you touch enemy, you get one coup.”

Felix looked at Maisie for some help, but she was jumping up, excited.

“I want to touch the enemy,” she said. “I want to count coup.”

Curly laughed again. “Girls do not go to battle,” he said. “You stay here.”

“But I want to come,” Maisie insisted. “I’m braver than him.” She pointed at Felix.

“We shall see how brave he is,” Curly said, his eyes twinkling.