Buffalo Medicine (8 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: Buffalo Medicine
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The death of
the Old Man seemed to make little difference to the Hairfaces, but it had a profound effect on Owl. For a few suns he brooded. He became more homesick than at any time since his abduction so long ago.
He would dream at night that he was a boy in his parents' lodge again, and the fire would be burning low, and he was cold. Then he would wake and the low-burning fire would be the one around which the prisoners huddled for warmth. He would creep closer and attempt to get back to sleep.
Dreams of food also plagued him. How long, how long, since he had eaten crisp morsels of back-fat, or a slab of well-browned hump ribs. He remembered the morsels of raw liver eaten by the women during the butchering of buffalo. How desirable such a mouthful would now seem, after a diet of poor-quality stewed corn, beans, and dried pumpkin.
But most of all, his dreams of Willow tormented him.
Sometimes in half-waking confusion he could almost believe she had been entirely a dream. In his waking moments her memory was real enough. He relived a hundred times the ecstasy of their all too short one night together, and the bitter helplessness of seeing her clubbed down in her attempt to save him.
In his dreams, too, she was real. He could feel her soft body, the strong young arms around his neck. He tasted the warmth of her lips as she came to him. Then, awaking, his senses would doubt sometimes if Willow had ever existed, except as a beautiful dream.
Still, it was the memory of the girl that stimulated him to think again in terms of escape. She had always refused completely to accept the reality of captivity. She
would
escape. He had just dreamed one night the same dream of their escape, but this time awoke before their recapture. He awoke confused, but with the escape idea still foremost in his mind.
Shock had prevented him from adequately planning escape for a time, but now he was able to return to such thought. And, strangely, the incident of the Old Man's death had become the focus of his plans. He had noticed that, in the excitement of the moment, the overseers had become very careless in their watching of the prisoners. And El Gato, blind with rage, had become oblivious to all else.
Owl did not tell anyone of his thoughts, even Long Bow. It was not distrust of the man, but more like distrust of his lack of spirit. Owl still hoped to include Long Bow in the escape when the chance came.
There was one other major factor. Owl had no clear idea of how the attempt would happen. He only knew that when the time came, he would know.
By the time the chance occurred, the days were growing short. The prisoners were telling each other that soon it would be time to stop the gathering of medicine rocks.
There was ice on the edges of the calmer pools in the stream each morning.
These things lent a sense of urgency to Owl's thoughts. He was almost ready to concede that he must postpone escape until after the winter. Yet, he had decided, although he probably did not realize it, that this season must be the one. He
had
to make the try, and soon. The exact mode of his attempt refused to become clear in his mind.
He was making his way down the trail with a loaded ore sack when the solution came to him. There was the spot, he noted, looking ahead, where the sick prisoner fell. That had precipitated the wrath of El Gato, and the rest of the episode. Suddenly the answer was clear.
Owl carefully avoided any suspicious actions as he hurried past El Gato's rock, but he noted certain features of the trail. Again, on the return trip, he examined the rock and its overhang, taking care not to pause too long. His effort must take place on the last round trip of the day, or nearly so. He rehearsed the event in his mind on each journey past the rock. His actions must be timed exactly right, and must not arouse suspicion. He took one other step. Owl managed to work adjacent to Long Bow for the rest of the day, but still said nothing to him.
When the shadows from Sun Boy's torch began to grow long on the mountain, Owl decided this was the time. On the next carry down the trail he would make his try. Long Bow was behind him as he started the walk that would be, one way or another, his last on the mine trail.
El Gato recognized him and watched him carefully down the path. Owl staggered a little, and Long Bow called out from behind to ask if he were sick. Owl did not answer. This must be very convincing. As he neared the rock, under the watchful eye of El Gato, the stagger became worse. When he fell, it was nearly at the same place where the unfortunate prisoner had died.
Owl sagged to his knees and pitched forward. His ore
sack tumbled to the path. It had been a temptation to let it slip over the edge, but he had rejected that approach. The episode must be somewhat subtle.
The roared curse of El Gato reached his ears, and Owl knew that the cutting lash would follow. He covered his head with his arms for protection and allowed the first stroke to fall. Then, screaming and bleeding, he rolled and scrambled toward the overhang of the rock. Once more the lash struck across his hips before he huddled against the smooth stone, whimpering and crying.
The mid-portion of the rock bulged somewhat, overhanging the trail, and it was to this spot that Owl had scrambled. It was no protection at all. El Gato's whip could reach any spot along the path for many paces. To see this small area, however, El Gato must move to the uphill end of the rock and lean out over the trail. He did so, now, chuckling at the stupidity of the prisoner who sought shelter where there was none. The whip coiled and whistled through the air.
Suddenly the cowering prisoner under the rock was transformed. In an instant, just as the lash struck, strong brown hands grasped out, seizing the biting strands. He gave a powerful heave with muscles grown strong from lifting ore sacks. El Gato felt the pull on the whip, and, in his leaning position, was suddenly overbalanced. He released his grip to free himself from the danger, but the deadly instrument was tied firmly to his wrist by the thongs.
Slowly, the massive bulk of the man tipped forward over the rock, across the trail and into the canyon. Owl had the satisfaction of looking directly into the face of El Gato. At only a little more than arm's length, he saw the brutal, sadistic expression change to one of stark terror. El Gato did not scream. There was only a short choking gasp of disbelief as he launched into the void.
For a moment it looked as if El Gato would attempt to fly. He spread his arms wide, grasping at nothingness,
and seemed to hover like the eagle when she leaves her nest. Then he plummeted downward. Owl crouched on the narrow shelf, watching fascinated as the man's body disappeared among the fir tips far below. His last glimpse was of the whip, still tied fast and trailing behind, waving straight upward in the wind of El Gato's passing.
“Run!” shouted Long Bow. “El Gato is dead!”
Prisoners began to scatter up the slope, and Owl darted around the rock and joined in the escape.
“
El Gato esta muerto!
” came the cry from another overseer, echoing in his own tongue the observation of Long Bow.
Some of the prisoners, too broken in spirit to make the attempt, simply cowered beside the trail. At least a dozen men, however, were sprinting upward, leaping from one boulder to another, putting distance between themselves and the Hairfaces. As he ran, Owl was puzzled for a moment. The overseers were not running in pursuit. He had just begun to wonder at this strange situation when the smoke-log boomed from the meadow below.
The entire slope was raked with scatter shot. Grape-sized pellets bounced and rattled among the boulders like hailstones. A juniper just ahead of Owl jerked and shuddered from impact, and needles scattered on the sand. Behind him, men screamed and fell bleeding, or continued to run, howling and limping.
Below, the officer barked orders and the cannon was readied again, a fresh cannister of shot rammed home. Again the slope was raked by death.
Owl continued to run and climb. He had some inkling that there must be limitations to the reach of the smoke-log. He did not know how far its medicine might reach, but he had noticed that there was a limitation in height. The smoke-log had always been used in a horizontal position. In addition, he was very much aware that the heavy device could not be moved over steep or rough ground.
The smoke-log boomed again, but this time the rattle of the missiles was behind him. He continued to run, panting now in the thin mountain air. The crest of the ridge was now only a long bow shot above him.
Lungs burning, he climbed the last few paces and stood looking back. Far below, antlike figures still scurried about, and distant shouts reached his ears. A white puff from the smoke-log drifted slowly over the expanse of the canyon, hanging over the abyss. A few heartbeats later the dull boom reached his ears.
The realization slowly dawned on him, and he felt like shouting in triumph. An eagle swept past on fixed wings, and Owl spoke to the bird.
“My friend,” he muttered, tears coursing down his face, “I am as free as you are.”
Far below, the
Hairfaces moved along the trail and up the slope. Recaptured prisoners were herded together and toward the encampment in the meadow. A few men moved among the wounded, methodically clubbing those injured too severely to recover and be of use.
Owl stood numbly watching, detached from the reality below. There was no apparent effort at pursuit, and he realized that perhaps they were unaware that one of the prisoners had actually been successful in escape. He peered through the lengthening shadows, looking for other escapees, but saw none. There was no sign of Long Bow. Owl had seen him at his elbow just before the smoke-log boomed, but not since. He waited a short while, then decided that the other had either been killed by the first blast of the smoke-log, or had escaped and was in hiding. He had not much hope, since the Hairfaces behaved as if they had nearly every prisoner accounted for.
It seemed likely, in fact, that there would be no pursuit. Owl had devised his attempt in the fading time of Sun Boy's torch. Now, it would soon be dark and darkness would be on the side of the fugitive. Still, it seemed prudent to take certain precautions. They would probably expect him to travel east, toward his own people.
With this in mind, Owl started north, following the backbone of the ridge at a distance-eating jog. He slowed only when the terrain was too rough, or the footing unsure. By full dark he was out of sight of the twinkling campfires below.
When twilight became too poor to travel safely, Owl stopped for a while. He drank deeply from a stream, and then curled against the sun-warmed southwest face of a granite slab. He would move on after moonrise improved visibility.
Owl had intended to sleep a short while, but found that he was far too excited. He tried to occupy the time by planning. There were many obstacles to be overcome. He was alone, without food, weapons, or clothing, except for his breechclout.
Water seemed no major problem, since in this part of the mountains were many small sparkling streams. More important was the threat of the weather. This must be, by the People's reckoning, the Ripening Moon. Soon following would come the Moon of Falling Leaves, and the Moon of Madness. From tradition, he knew that the seasons came earlier in the mountains. It was said that Cold Maker lived on a mountain top far to the north, and came down each autumn to the plains. He had no way of knowing when to expect Cold Maker in this strange land. He was certain of one thing, however. The prairies of his people were so far away that he could not reach them before winter. It would be necessary to face the onslaught of Cold Maker here, in the mountains.
Perhaps that would be not entirely bad. There were
innumerable hiding places among the rocks and trees of the area. The fugitive would be in jeopardy from the Hairfaces, from the Mud Lodge people, and, if he traveled eastward far enough, from the Head Splitters. None of these people, Owl believed, would be traveling in the mountains to any extent, during the moons of the Cold Maker.
He would travel, he decided, north and east, but careful to remain in rough enough country to provide shelter and concealment. Then, if he determined that there was actually no pursuit, he could select and prepare a shelter for the winter months.
The moon was rising now, red and just past full. Owl waited until the light grew stronger, and started on again. As he traveled, he realized, he must devise weapons, and secure food and garments. He had no doubts at all about his ability to accomplish this. In fact, Owl was so pleased with his situation that he was ready to burst into song at any time. When the laughing call of his medicine animal, the coyote, came echoing across the canyon, the relief of tension was too much. He stopped, threw back his head, and yodeled back an answer for pure joy of being alive and free.
When daylight came he saw beaver ponds below him, and turned down the slope. The animals had been cutting in a stand of cottonwoods, dragging brush for their dams and to store for winter under the ice. Owl searched for some time before he found the object that he needed. A piece of cottonwood, cut cleanly at the ends by the beavers. It was slightly shorter than his arm, and in diameter somewhat less than his wrist. He hefted the club and found that it balanced well.
It had been years since he had used a throwing stick, but the familiar feel brought his muscles into coordination. Owl flung the stick with a full-armed sweep at a stump a few paces away, and was pleased at the accuracy of the
throw. It bounced off with a hollow thunk and he stepped over to retrieve it.
Now he was armed. True, it was with a childish weapon, used mostly among the People for the amusement of children. Still, the throwing stick could be effective. Most families of the People welcomed the addition to their food supply which small game provided. This was also a matter of prestige among the young. The first kill of nearly every hunter was a fat rabbit, knocked over with the thrown stick. This could lead to a great deal of honor among one's peers in the Rabbit Society.
So, with a great deal of confidence, Owl continued his journey. He had managed to find another well-balanced stick in case he lost one.
Returning to the ridge, he spent some time on a high rock, searching the entire area. There was no sign of pursuit, and he began to relax on that score. He must still be watchful, but immediate danger seemed minimal. He evaluated the landscape to better formulate his plans. Blue ridges, one beyond another, could be seen in all directions. It was obvious that the higher, snow-capped ranges were to the west, but there were many days' travel of rough country anywhere he looked. Owl was pleased to see no smoke in the still morning air. It would be very unlikely that anyone in these mountains would be anything but dangerous to him.
Perhaps two days' distance to the northeast lay an area of rough broken ridges covered with a heavy growth of pine and fir. It was not the sort of locale in which a group of people would spend a winter. That was exactly what made Owl consider it ideal for one lone fugitive. It lay in his direction of travel anyway.
Behind him a jay scolded, and he dropped quickly to his belly to peer over the rock's edge. It was only a doe and her half-grown fawn, stepping daintily across the ridge. Owl watched them out of sight, needing the food, shelter
and clothing they represented. He must wait, though, for that sort of kill, until he could contrive better weapons. He rose and traveled on.
Two more stops he made that day. The first was to investigate a rocky outcrop below the crest of the ridge. He was delighted to find that the formation of white stone contained a vein of the substance he sought. It was a good grade of flint. With another stone he battered at the blue-gray streak until he had a pile of chips from which to choose. He selected several good-sized flakes, seeing in his mind's eye knives for cutting, spear points, and arrowheads. Owl was certainly not as skilled in the shaping of weapons as old Stone Breaker of the People, but he understood the principles involved.
The handful of sharp flint became clumsy to carry, and finally Owl discarded all but the best fragments. He removed his breechclout and used it to wrap a bundle of the remaining flints. The thong from his waist now held the packet with one of the throwing sticks over his shoulder as he started on.
The second stop was prompted by hunger. He observed a bear eating berries and turned aside to try them himself. White Buffalo had always impressed him with the fact that anything bears eat can be eaten by people. The berries grew in profusion along the stream, but were coarse and bitter, very unsatisfying to his empty stomach. In fact, he had not thought much of food until now, but began to have pangs of hunger, prompted by the abortive attempt.
He climbed back toward the better traveling on the ridge, and heard the chattering of a squirrel. He turned aside again, and soon saw several of the dark gray animals with long tufted ears, actively harvesting pine seeds. Owl picked up a cone, and pried a few seeds out to taste. They had a nutlike flavor, although they tasted strongly of the resin of the pine tree.
He decided this might provide sustenance, but his real
desire was for red meat. He had feared for some time that his teeth were loosening, and his gums were constantly sore. Clearly, his craving for meat must be satisfied. After several tries, he managed to knock over two of the fat squirrels. They were smaller than the fox squirrels in the canyons of his prairie country, but appeared acceptable fare.
Owl had decided that he could chance a fire, so he carried the squirrels and selected an open spot on the ridge. Carefully he chose dead twigs that would burn without much smoke. The light breeze would rapidly disperse that. Dried grass and a handful of cedar bark for tinder completed his preparations.
From the south exposure of a nearby slope he obtained a couple of dry yucca stems for rubbing sticks. His fire-bow was bent from a willow branch and strung with the thong from his breechclout. In a short while a fire was crackling while he skinned and cleaned the squirrels. The skins were carefully saved.
Owl found that the meat tasted of pine resin, probably due to the animal's diet. Still, when one's stomach needs meat, he reflected, who is to worry about the taste of a little pine?
He finished his meal and extinguished the fire before gathering his small store of belongings for travel. It had been a good day, Owl thought. He had started with absolutely nothing, and now had weapons, fire-making sticks, the necessary material for making more tools, and had eaten satisfactorily. Yes, the day had gone well.
As Sun Boy's torch slipped behind the snow-capped range to the west, Owl moved on, placing distance between him and the obliterated cooking fire.

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