Authors: Don Coldsmith
Buffalo Medicine (5 page)
When Owl regained
consciousness, it was because of a continuous jarring motion which caused his head to throb. Even then, a thought flitted through his mind. He was thankful that it was his head and not his groin that throbbed. Cautiously, he attempted to reassure himself that his anatomy was intact, and found that he was bound, his hands in front of him.
consciousness, it was because of a continuous jarring motion which caused his head to throb. Even then, a thought flitted through his mind. He was thankful that it was his head and not his groin that throbbed. Cautiously, he attempted to reassure himself that his anatomy was intact, and found that he was bound, his hands in front of him.
He was riding on a pole-drag, and his companion was the old woman. Slowly, he realized that he had been brought back to the camp of the Head Splitters, and that the band was now on the move again. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. More than a sun, he thought. He was still quite confused and snatches of memory kept returning unexpectedly.
The memory of the beautiful Willow tormented him, and for a time he wished that he had been killed, too. The ecstasy they had shared had been all too brief. Gradually
he began to realize that the girl would want him to keep his courage. She had never wavered. He would owe it to the memory of this courageous woman, his wife of one ecstatic night, to keep his spirit. He must try again to escape.
he began to realize that the girl would want him to keep his courage. She had never wavered. He would owe it to the memory of this courageous woman, his wife of one ecstatic night, to keep his spirit. He must try again to escape.
The direction of travel was southwest, bending gradually more westerly. The band marched as if a long journey was anticipated.
He was treated harshly, though he was given reasonable amounts of food. Never was there a time when he was not watched closely by at least one of the women. His hands and feet were constantly tied except for very brief periods. The wrists and ankles became chafed and raw. Owl stopped struggling to free his bonds for the simple reason that the attempt was too painful.
As his strength returned, he was sometimes allowed to walk, with hands still tied, alongside the old woman's pole-drag.
The journey continued. They were much further to the west than in the previous season. Further west, Owl believed, than any of the People had ever been. At least, none had ever returned to tell of it.
One day, with Sun Boy's torch directly overhead, a murmur of excitement flickered down from the front of the column. Apparently they were nearing a destination of some sort.
Owl raised his head and peered forward, to see a village ahead. It consisted of lodges that were permanent in appearance, like the pole and mud lodges of the Growers. The People often visited tribes of Growers along the larger streams of the plains. Skins, furs, and meat had been traded for products of the farming tribes for many generations.
This permanent-appearing town, however, consisted of lodges of a type Owl had never seen before. They were taller than those of the Growers, flat on the tops instead of arched, and were squarish rather than round. Strangest of all, there seemed to be no door-skins. In fact, Owl could
see no way at all to enter these lodges. Door-skins on lodges of the People always faced southeast. Owl thought at first perhaps all the doorways were on the other side.
see no way at all to enter these lodges. Door-skins on lodges of the People always faced southeast. Owl thought at first perhaps all the doorways were on the other side.
As they passed among the strange dwellings, however, it became apparent that there were no openings on any side. He finally realized, after seeing some small children standing on top of the lodges, that this must be the mode of entry. His observation was verified by noting a young man climbing up the outside of a lodge on a device made of poles tied together.
The visiting Head Splitters stopped just outside the far perimeter of the village, and prepared to make camp. Several of the chiefs walked back into the jumble of mud lodges. Owl supposed they would pay their respects to the chief of the Mud Lodge people.
As darkness gathered, he watched the people of the strange tribe move among the lodges. The weather was mild, and much of the cooking seemed to be done outside. He was especially startled to see a woman busily tending a fire in a small conical lodge of mud, no taller than her head. Eventually she reached in with a long stick and brought out large lumps of some hot substance which must be food. The strange smell was pleasant to his nostrils.
Owl wondered if the People would believe his tales when he returned home. A tribe which built square lodges and climbed in and out through the smoke-hole on poles tied together! The cooking of strange foods in a special fire-lodge. His chances of being able to tell of these wondrous things looked pretty slim at the moment.
Full darkness had now fallen, and the people of his captors' tribe drew nearer their fires against the night's chill. Owl could see some of the Mud Lodge people climbing to the tops of their lodges to disappear inside. The delegation from the Head Splitters' camp returned, the men going separate ways to their own families.
Bull's Tail strode over, beckoned to Owl, and drew him
aside. He began to speak in the Head Splitter tongue, augmented by the sign language.
aside. He began to speak in the Head Splitter tongue, augmented by the sign language.
“I have exchanged you to this tribe. You have been nothing but trouble since you were captured. Many Wives will kill you if he is able.” He paused and gave a long sigh. “I had hoped to keep you, for the honor of holding a chief's son, butâ” he spread his hands in a shrug.
Owl was startled at the lengthy speech by his captor, and by his use of the Head Splitters' tongue. He must have known all along that his prisoner was gaining knowledge of the language.
Bull's Tail tied the hands of the captive in front of him, and led him among the mud lodges. Slowly, the enormity of this turn of events sank into Owl's mind. He was resentful and indignant, and felt betrayed by a man he had respected. Owl wondered wryly if Bull's Tail considered that he had brought a good price.
They reached a spot beside one of the dwellings, where two men of the Mud Lodge people waited, and they motioned him to climb. One of the men followed him up to the top of the structure, where another waited. Here they motioned to a smoke-stained hole and pushed him in that direction. Owl, remembering that cooperation had earned better treatment, moved over and started to climb down the ladder. One of the men stopped him long enough to untie his hands, and again motioned to the interior.
Owl descended into the warm, foul-smelling structure, coughing a little from the smoke. A small fire burned in the center of the lodge, and he could see the dark shapes of several men and boys around the edge of the darkness. Someone above pulled the ladder up and out of the smoke-hole. To Owl, accustomed to the wide skies and open horizons of the prairie, this was the most fearful of all sensations, that of entrapment. Never, in all the coming moons, did he entirely overcome this panicky feeling in one of these lodges
when the pole-ladder was removed and the exit became inaccessible.
when the pole-ladder was removed and the exit became inaccessible.
He glanced around the lodge, at the several faces reflecting light of the tiny fire. The thing he saw in each pair of eyes was disconcerting. Each was a replica of the last, revealing one thought. Hopelessness.
By the variety of the tattered garments that they wore, and the difference in the appearance of their hair, Owl judged that they represented several different tribes. He must attempt communication.
“Who are you?” he signed to the group at large. Only stares in answer. His inquiring glance touched each of the handful of faces in the lodge.
“Do you understand the signs?”
Surely, any tribe Owl had ever heard of could communicate with the universal hand signs. There was no change in the fixed expressions of despair.
“Are we all prisoners here?”
A man coughed, behind him in the corner. Owl turned to look. The tired old man chuckled without mirth, and began to sign.
“Of course we are prisoners, Stupid One!”
Owl did not answer, but sought an unoccupied place next to the wall and sat down. He wondered if it would be possible to create enough spirit in these men to attempt escape.
No matter, he thought. If they will not, at least I will.
Once a day
a container of food was lowered, and the prisoners squabbled over the best positions around the vessel. There was little variety. Stewed corn or beans or a combination of the two. Sometimes only a mushy whitish substance which Owl identified as made of ground corn. How he longed for the rich, juicy flavor of hump ribs after a successful buffalo hunt. He would dream at night of feasting on good red meat until his belly hurt. Then he would awake, his belly actually hurting, but from hunger pangs. He wondered how long a person could live without meat, the staple of the People's diet.
a container of food was lowered, and the prisoners squabbled over the best positions around the vessel. There was little variety. Stewed corn or beans or a combination of the two. Sometimes only a mushy whitish substance which Owl identified as made of ground corn. How he longed for the rich, juicy flavor of hump ribs after a successful buffalo hunt. He would dream at night of feasting on good red meat until his belly hurt. Then he would awake, his belly actually hurting, but from hunger pangs. He wondered how long a person could live without meat, the staple of the People's diet.
Perhaps even worse was the inactivity. The most stimulating event of the day, aside from the arrival of food, was the spot of light from Sun Boy's torch. It started high on the wall, crawled downward and across the floor, then up the opposite wall before narrowing into nothing just before the time of darkness began.
Owl felt himself growing weaker from inactivity, and started to pace the confines of the lodge to remain strong. He must be able to escape when the time came. The other prisoners seemed to resent these efforts on his part, grudgingly moving aside for his pacing.
At first none would communicate at all. Finally the old man, who had first answered the hand signs, condescended to at least acknowledge Owl's queries. This, however, was not much better than nothing. He soon realized that the man was deranged. The evil spirit in him would sometimes make him giggle senselessly, though at other times he seemed almost rational.
It was during one of the more sensible periods that Owl managed to communicate at some length with him. The Old Man, as Owl thought of him, was apparently not so old, though his hair was white. He had no idea how long he had been a prisoner. Had he ever tried escape? Of course, at first.
Owl could not understand the man's attempts to tell him his tribe. It was one unfamiliar to the People.
Owl was puzzled. Surely the man's entire captivity had not been spent in this lodge. Efforts for further information on this point were fruitless, answered only by a vague hand gesture toward the southwest. Another puzzling circumstance bothered him even more. For what purpose would one hold another person in captivity? He attempted to question the Old Man.
“What will be done with us next?” he signed.
“They will sell us,” came the quick answer, “to the Hairfaces.”
A look of apprehension crept over the sallow face, and the man began to jabber quietly. The spirit was bothering him again, Owl saw, and ceased his questioning. The other wandered over against the wall, sank to a recumbent position, and curled up like a child, whimpering softly to himself.
Owl was touched by the pitiable sight, but also had much to think about. “The Hairfaces!” What could be meant by that? The only man he had ever seen with fur upon his face was his father. Could it be possible that the people of whom the Old Man spoke with such dread were the tribe of Owl's father? If so, he would undoubtedly be welcomed when he identified himself. He settled back against his own section of the wall, almost elated. This could be the solution to all his problems, to find his father's people.
Still, gnawing at the back of his mind, was the memory of the Old Man's inordinate dread of these people. And what, he wondered uneasily, had turned his hair prematurely white?
Owl's natural optimism won out, and he decided that his own case was considerably different from that of the Old Man. Adding to his anticipation was another sign of good medicine. As the twilight deepened, he heard a coyote's call from the far hilltop.
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By the time of the arrival of the Hairfaces, Owl had managed to convince himself that this was to be an event of extreme good fortune. It was with actual anticipation that he climbed the ladder with the other prisoners and stood blinking in the unfamiliar sunlight.
A glance toward the camp site near the creek showed him that the Head Splitters had long since departed. He felt a pang of loneliness. The tribe of his captors had been the last vestige of contact with his own people of the plains.
The slight twinge of regret was immediately overshadowed by interest in that which was new. Below him in the path between the lodges were several men on horses, moving at a leisurely pace toward the center of the village.
The man who appeared to be their leader sat on a magnificent black stallion. He wore strange bright-colored garments and headgear, and a medicine shirt that Owl
suddenly realized was exactly like one he had seen before. Over his parent's sleeping robes in the lodge far away hung an unused chain-mail shirt. Owl had grown up knowing only that it represented a part of his father's past heritage. It was considered strong medicine among the People, but Owl had never seen it worn.
suddenly realized was exactly like one he had seen before. Over his parent's sleeping robes in the lodge far away hung an unused chain-mail shirt. Owl had grown up knowing only that it represented a part of his father's past heritage. It was considered strong medicine among the People, but Owl had never seen it worn.
The man on the black stallion rode past the lodge, and Owl, looking down directly on him, saw that this shirt was indeed like his father's. The slender curling strands shone glittering in the sunlight, and dull metallic sounds emanated from the rider as he moved.
With a thrill of excitement, Owl saw that the men on horses, and many of those on the ground, did indeed have fur upon their faces. One man, riding directly behind the leader, glanced up, and the astonished Owl saw that he greatly resembled his father. Certainly closely enough to have been a relative. Perhaps, Owl pondered, the Hairface could even be my uncle! He could hardly wait for the coming confrontation.
How could he contrive to present the most impressive scene? His mind raced ahead. He remembered well the techniques of White Buffalo, and how the old medicine man could milk the last drop of drama out of a situation.
Owl had only a moment to plan his scene, however, The last of the procession passed below, and their captors motioned the prisoners to descend the ladder to the ground. They were shoved roughly forward in the direction the Hairfaces had taken.
The horsemen had dismounted and were facing an open area, awaiting the approaching file of prisoners. The captives were led forward, and by sign language, one of the Mud Lodge people indicated that they were to kneel. The men on either side dropped woodenly to their knees. Now, thought Owl, now is the time. He drew himself to the full height of his young manhood, and addressed the leader of the group, using hand signs.
“I am Owl,” he began, “son of Heads Off, chief of the Elk-dog band of the People. My father is a Hairface, of your tribe! I am of your people!”
All eyes were on him, astonished at his revelation. Owl stood, smiling and expectant, waiting for the welcoming answer from the Hairface leader. He was still smiling when the whip struck across his bare shoulders, each of the metal-tipped lashes raking a thin strip of skin. Owl screamed, and dropped writhing to the ground, still crying out in pain. The Hairface leader smiled thinly.
Three more times the whip hissed through the air, the burning cut of the multiple lashes searching, wrapping, stripping skin. Finally the punishment stopped, and there was silence for a moment, broken only by the delirious giggle of the demented Old Man.
A couple of the Hairfaces moved among the prisoners, tying them together by means of a rope knotted around each left ankle. Their leader stalked over to his horse and stepped nimbly up. He reined the animal around, then turned and spoke to the man with the whip.
“Bring them along,” he said casually. He pointed with his quirt at the prostrate figure on the ground. “If the half-breed bastard makes trouble, give him another taste of the cat!”
The tongue of the Hairfaces was completely foreign to Owl, but the meaning was clear. He glanced over at the man with the whip, intending to remember his appearance for future use. The stern glare he encountered made him drop his eyes again as he painfully rose with the others and shuffled after the riders.
So these were men of his father's tribe. No wonder he had left them to join the People.
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