Buffalo Medicine (14 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: Buffalo Medicine
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When Owl awoke,
he discovered that Cold Maker had abandoned the goal of destroying the young medicine man. Sun Boy was just thrusting his torch over the world's rim, and a new scent was in the air, the smell of damp earth. Much of the snow was gone, melting in little rivulets. Scattered patches clung wetly, in marked contrast to the dry, powdery skiffs of the previous day. He quickly broke camp, swung to the back of the claybank mare, and started to travel. On a day such as this, one could cover much distance.
The prairie slid behind him under the feet of the little mare, and Owl exulted in the freedom of the far horizon. He had hardly realized the extent of his dread of closed places. This was country for human beings, the country of the People, where one could see to the edge of the earth. The sight was not obscured by rocks or trees, behind which an enemy could hide.
Each day the distant rolling prairie appeared slightly more green. He came to a burned area, and wondered whether the dry standing grass of last season had been fired by the medicine man of some band of the People. Perhaps only by lightning. Regardless, green sprigs were starting in profusion through the blackened stubble. Next day, he encountered buffalo, and allowed himself the luxury of a kill.
Owl tied his horse beyond a low hill, threw his elk robe over his head and shoulders, and began to approach the herd. He found that he had not lost the carefully studied skill of the buffalo medicine. He enjoyed the ability to move among the big animals, their hair now shedding in ragged patches. He recalled with amusement his resentment of his tutor for forcing him to perfect this procedure.
Owl moved among the animals perhaps even longer than was necessary, nostalgically brushing against the grazing giants. Finally he selected his quarry, and made his spear-thrust. The razor-sharp flint drove into soft flank parts, forward and up, into the region of the heart and lungs. The startled, mortally wounded cow threw up her head and ran wildly, with the other animals staring in dumb astonishment at her antics. It was not until the stricken beast lay kicking that the others began to fidget, then to pace, and eventually they ran in a clumsy, unhurried gallop over the prairie.
This became a feast of homecoming for Owl. He butchered out the choicest of cuts, all he thought he could carry. By the time he finished, a pair of buzzards were wheeling slow circles above him and waiting. He knew that at dark they would be replaced by coyotes and foxes.
Owl bundled his newly acquired food in a portion of the skin and slung it over his shoulder. Strange, he recalled. A few short moons ago, his survival had depended on the possession of a skin of poorer quality than that he was now leaving to rot. He regretted for a moment, but knew he could not take time to care for the skin. Neither
could he carry it. The horse must carry food, all the meat he could conveniently pack.
That evening, Owl gorged himself shamelessly. He even rose in the night and cooked more of the savory hump meat, his first since he had been traded by the Head Splitters. That had been two, no, nearly three seasons ago.
Now, full and warm, he rolled back into his robe with a deep sense of satisfaction. He could hear the coyotes in the distance, yapping over the buffalo kill, and he was reminded that his medicine animal was still with him. He drifted into a comfortable, happy sleep.
 
 
Owl was not so confident a few suns later when he unexpectedly came across the trail of a moving group of people. From the marks of many lodge poles dragged behind elk-dogs, this was a large band. He tried to estimate the number of lodges, but could not.
The most burning question was, who were these travelers? They might easily be Head Splitters, so he must be cautious. They could just as easily be a band of the People. Their course was nearly due east, and they might be traveling toward the annual Sun Dance and Big Council with the other bands. He had no way of knowing where the Big Council might be held this season.
Ultimately, Owl decided to follow the plain trail before him. He decided that he was far enough north anyway, and could turn eastward into the main country of the People. If the band he was following proved to be one of his own tribe, so much the better. If not and they were the enemy, he could keep aware of their movements by following their trail. They would not be expecting trouble. They would not be so observant from their position of strength as would a smaller war party. He turned and leisurely followed the broad trail, observing ahead very carefully.
Owl estimated from the condition of the horse droppings that the traveling band was two or three sleeps ahead of him. They would not be traveling nearly as rapidly as he could, so he would in time overtake them. He was pleased at one thought. His own tracks would be practically undetectable among the myriad he was following, in case he, in turn, were followed.
It was several sleeps before he learned for certain the identity of the band he followed. Identification was of a very humble type. At a night campsight of the group ahead, he found a worn-out moccasin. It was of the distinctive plains pattern, and its decorative thongs told its story plainly. The discarded footgear was that of the People.
Probably, then, the group ahead were of the Red Rocks, or possibly the Mountain band. Owl's heart leaped with expectation. These were his own people ahead of him, the People. He pushed ahead, though still with some apprehension.
After he sighted the band, his caution of the past seasons still forced him to watch them for nearly half a day before going in. Finally, from a concealed position, he heard the chatter of women gathering fuel for the evening fires. Chatter in his own tongue, unheard for so long. He rose, retrieved his horse, and walked boldly into the evening camp.
People stared at his odd garments, pointed and whispered, and dogs yapped at his heels. Owl stopped and asked an old woman where he might find the lodge of the chief. It was proper protocol to contact the chief immediately to pay one's respects. In addition, the leader of this band was probably an old friend of his father's. Owl would be welcomed as family, and he could learn news of the People.
The old woman pointed the way, and watched Owl curiously as he continued through the camp. He had not asked which band this might be. Somehow he hated to admit his ignorance.
He led his horse among the makeshift brush and skin temporary lodges used by the People while on the move. The big lodges, made of many buffalo skins, were too cumbersome to erect at each stop. He continued in the direction indicated by the old woman, and came to a large brush shelter. Several women were busily engaged in cooking over fires in front of the shelter. Seated under the arching branches sat Black Beaver, chief of the Mountain band. He was quietly smoking.
“
Ah-koh,
my chief,” greeted Owl. “I am Owl, son of Heads Off of the Elk-Dog band.”
Black Beaver nodded recognition and motioned him to sit. Even though custom demanded a certain time of ritual smoking, Owl was impatient. It seemed forever before the chief offered him the pipe. He blew to the four winds, the sky and the earth, and returned the pipe ceremonially to the older man.
“Now, my son, what brings you to my lodge?” He had diplomatically refrained from comment on his guest's unorthodox appearance.
Owl longed to blurt out his entire story, but held himself in check. It would not be seemly. He would begin by asking the chief's hospitality.
“I would ask the shelter of your lodge, my chief,” he began. “I have traveled far.”
Black Beaver's eyes opened wide. To Owl's surprise, the chief appeared to nearly lose his composure.
“Of course,” he finally nodded. “I only thought you might wish to stay with your wife and her people.”
“My
wife
?” Owl's head swam. He completely failed to comprehend.
“You did not know?” Black Beaver was astonished in his turn. “I thought it your reason for being here!”
“But I have no wife,” the confused Owl blurted. Then, slowly, a long-forgotten thought stirred. The Mountain band of the People. Had that not been Willow's? Could it
be? But, he had seen her clubbed to the ground. Could the girl have survived, and lived to escape?
“Willow?” he breathed at last. “Willow is
here
?”
“Of course, my son. Your daughter, too. They do not know you are here?” The chief motioned to a young woman, who slipped quietly away among the brush shelters.
Owl was standing, dumbfounded. “Daughter?”
“Of course! Wait—you know nothing of this? Then Willow—she still thinks you dead!” Black Beaver became as excited as Owl had ever seen a man in his position.
There was a sudden rush from behind, and Owl was nearly bowled over in a flurry of feminine affection. Now the chief's composure was completely broken. He chuckled.
Willow straightened and spoke.
“Forgive me, my chief,” she began.
Black Beaver waved a hand in dismissal.
“Go now,” he smiled. “You have much to tell each other.” He spoke again to Owl. “Come back when you have visited with your family. We will talk again.”
The next few
days were a confusion of ecstasy for Owl. So many new ideas and experiences were thrust upon him that he thought his head must burst. Willow's family welcomed him as a long lost son. They could hardly wait to provide him with buckskins and moccasins, and to invite friends to visit and meet their new son-in-law.
Owl made the adjustments slowly, only gradually realizing the prestige that he had brought to the girl's parents.
Aiee
, to have a son in the family who was a medicine man of the People, who had traveled far and seen many things! One who had bested the Head Splitters, and even the unknown hair-faced tribe far to the southwest. His medicine must indeed be strong.
Willow's father, White Hawk, was a tall warrior of middle age, athletic yet a quiet thinker. His pride was expressed in conversation with the younger man. He asked intelligent questions about the far tribes and their
ways. Owl related well to him immediately. In some ways he reminded the young man of his own grandfather, the Coyote.
Even more striking was the resemblance of his mother-in-law to his own mother, the Tall One. He was not surprised to learn that her name was Tall Grass, and that she had in fact been called the “Tall One” as a child. It was easy to see where Willow had inherited the pride and spirit that he had so admired.
The other member of the family was a younger brother, called Chipmunk by the band. He had not yet received warrior status. This reminded Owl with some chagrin that he himself had no name of adult status. Eventually, he would accede to the title of White Buffalo, but for the present he still had only his childhood name. At least, he thought to himself, somewhere along the path he had lost the designation “Little” Owl. No one seemed to notice his dissatisfaction with his name, so he said nothing.
Chipmunk followed Owl with adoration. He received much status among his peers as the brother-in-law of the great medicine man who had now married into the band. At times the boy became a real nuisance, especially when Owl and his wife tried to be alone. Tall Grass finally intervened, and the situation improved somewhat.
One very difficult step for Owl was to think of himself as a father and head of a family. The small girl with the big dark eyes of her mother was slow at first in accepting him, but soon would curl against his chest in sleep, and chatter happily to him at play. She was called Red Bird, after the bright scarlet bird of the thick bushy canyons. Owl loved to watch the child. Her bright eyes and graceful movements, even as a child of but one summer, reminded him of her mother.
And Willow!
Aiee,
it was as if they had been separated forever when they were reunited. In other ways, it seemed they had never been apart. They made love whenever they
could, and the understanding people of the band respected their privacy.
They had much to talk about and share. Many times both would start to speak at the same time, then they would laugh together and try again.
“You first.”
“No, you, my husband.”
Gradually, they learned each other's stories. Each had been told that the other was dead. Apparently their captors had used this as a device to prevent their collaborating in another escape attempt.
Willow was reluctant to tell her story, preferring to ask about Owl's experiences. Finally, in the privacy of a sunny hillside one afternoon, he insisted on hearing the entire tale.
“How did you escape? What about Many Wives?”
“Many Wives is dead. I killed him.” Her eyes studied the grass beside them. Owl could see that this was as painful a memory for the girl as those that scarred his own past. He took her in his arms.
“I will tell you, my husband. Then we will speak no more of it.”
Willow had half-wakened after the blow of the club, to find her hair and face sticky with clotted blood. Her head throbbed beyond belief, and she had no strength to move. Through the dim haze of her pain came the constant thought that Owl was dead, or worse. She sobbed quietly.
While she lay in this stuporous state, one of the riders returned for a last look and discovered that she still breathed. He shouted to Many Wives, and the entire group returned. She later could vaguely recall being thrown across the back of one of the horses, and of the blinding pain which drove through her injured head. Again she sank into unconsciousness.
The next few days were a blur of agony, as her head pounded whenever she moved. The other wives tried to
help her to clean her bloodied face and hair, and to help her eat.
Meanwhile the sadistic Many Wives seemed to become almost crazed by the turn of events. The thought that a woman who was his property had been possessed by another man was totally unacceptable to him. He would shriek and rant at her, and his sexual demands became intolerable. Even before she was able to be up and about, he would demand frequent submission. His demands were sadistic, painful, and degrading.
Sometimes, after a cruel session in the robes, Many Wives would taunt her by threatening to “throw her away” to the warrior society. Willow was aware of this custom among these people. An unfaithful wife could be given by the husband to the men of the tribe, to be repeatedly raped by any and all. It was, in effect, a death sentence.
“You want other men?” he taunted. “You will wish you could return to the arms of Many Wives!”
Despite these frequent threats, he made no move to carry out such an action. Apparently his pride would not allow him to give up such a possession as a beautiful enemy captive. The girl kept hoping that his sadistic ardor would cool, but instead it became worse and more painful with each dreaded episode. She must take action if she were to survive. She might be killed in the attempt, but that was better than the continued degradation.
Her decisive move came after a session in the robes. She had attempted to comply with what she knew were his desires. She struggled just enough to provide the resistance she knew he enjoyed, to achieve satisfaction for him. Then, after he had rolled aside and lay sleeping off the effects of his activity, she cautiously drew out the small flint knife she had been concealing.
The slash across the throat was not quite from ear to ear. Many Wives woke with a scream which never reached his lips. The girl was able to watch the terror in his eyes as he
choked, realized that he was drowning in his own blood and fought for his life's breath. Somehow, there was less satisfaction than she had expected.
The other women looked on, horrified, but there was no outcry. Willow calmly turned, lifted the lodge lining, and crawled under the outer skin into the night. Then, thinking more clearly, she returned to gather some food and small articles of clothing.
The dumbfounded girls still sat stunned, but one told her in brief sign talk that they would raise no alarm until she was gone. Some of the others appeared to be also preparing to flee as Willow slipped again to freedom.
She untied the best of Many Wives' buffalo runners from behind the lodge, and slowly led the horse toward the stream. This attracted no attention. She would appear to be merely one of the wives caring for her husband's favorite elk-dog.
Safely beyond the stream and screened by the trees, Willow kicked the animal into a lope. She hoped the other girls could make their escape also, but felt that they were on their own, as she was. Their best defense was to scatter, like quail in the fall grasses:
Distance fell behind her, and by first gray light of dawn she was sure there was no pursuit. She had succeeded.

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