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Authors: James Welch

Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (30 page)

BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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“Good Young Man, put on the water to heat—build up the fire first—then run for Fools Crow and Red Paint. Run fast.”
One Spot had quieted down a little, but when Heavy Shield Woman looked down at him, she saw the saliva bubbling around his mouth. His eyes were dark and unseeing.

 

When Good Young Man returned with Fools Crow and Red Paint, Heavy Shield Woman was mopping the sick boy’s face with a cloth dampened in the warm water. Suddenly One Spot began to tremble violently and make noises in his throat. He tried to kick the robe off, but Fools Crow held his legs.
“It is the white-mouth,” he said. “The wolf has him.”
“Oh, I feared it!” Heavy Shield Woman moaned as she remembered how a girlfriend had died of a fox bite. She had never forgotten it and now she was seeing it again.
“Red Paint! Hold his legs while I get Mik-api.”
Fools Crow was gone for a long time. Red Paint helped her mother hold down the struggling boy. He did not recognize either of them, but the strange noise in his throat seemed a cry for help. Red Paint sank back on her heels once when her brother suddenly stopped and held himself rigid. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, and only then did she realize that she had been crying.
At last, Fools Crow entered the lodge. His chest was heaving and his face was crimson.

 

“Where’s Mik-api?” Red Paint held her breath.
“I searched the camp. Somebody thinks he is visiting the Hard Topknots.”
He looked down and Heavy Shield Woman was looking up at him with a blankness in her eyes. He suddenly thought that he had not looked at her this way since he had married Red Paint; nor had she looked at him. But now this taboo seemed far less important than the bad spirit in the boy they loved.
“We need a green hide,” said Fools Crow. “Mik-api once told me how he did this.”
Heavy Shield Woman looked down at her son, who was beginning to stir again. A trickle of blood from the crescent scab on his cheek ran down his neck. She wiped the saliva from his mouth. She looked up at Fools Crow and thought to question his ability as a medicine man—he was only an apprentice—but the dark shining in his eyes stopped her. He seemed to be somebody she had not known before.
“Morning Gun has just returned from his hunt,” she said. “He brought back a blackhorn.”
Fools Crow ran across a small icy field to Morning Gun’s lodge. He told the hunter what he needed, and the two men began to skin the blackhorn. They worked quickly, not caring if they punctured the skin or left too much meat on it. When they finished, Fools Crow draped the skin over his shoulder and began to trot back to Heavy Shield Woman’s lodge. He was surprised to see so many people standing around. They had been talking among themselves, but he hadn’t heard a word.
The two women undressed the struggling, kicking boy while Fools Crow spread the green hide, skin side up, on the other side of the fire. Good Young Man helped him clear away the spot. Fools Crow clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. Then he helped the women carry One Spot over to the hide. He was taken aback by the strength in the small body and understood how much effort it had taken the women to hold him down. But they managed to lay him on the smooth cool skin, with his arms pinned to his sides, and roll him up. Only his head stuck out of the shaggy bundle. Red Paint looked down and could not believe that the contorted face, the white foamy mouth which uttered such strange harsh sounds, belonged to her younger brother. But she knew that when a bad spirit entered one’s body, the body no longer belonged to the person. And so, as she looked at the face she grew calm, for she felt that, now the spirit had been trapped, her husband would drive it away with the medicine he had learned from Mik-api. She helped her mother to the far side of the fire and squatted to watch.
Fools Crow, who had stopped by his lodge for his parfleche of medicines, took out a small bundle of braided sweet grass. He lit one of the braids and captured the smoke in his free hand. He began to chant and to rub the smoke over the out-of-his-body boy and himself. He chanted with his eyes closed, and the steady rhythm of his voice, like a heartbeat, seemed to place the boy under a spell. One Spot stopped struggling and the noise in his throat subsided. Fools Crow chanted:
“I take heart from the sacred blackhorn.
Where I walk, the grasses touch my feet.
I stop with my medicine.
The ground where my medicine rests is sacred.”
Then he removed a burning stick from the fire and touched it against the shaggy hide. There was a hiss and the lodge was suddenly filled with the stink of burning hair. Heavy Shield Woman started, but Red Paint held her close. Still chanting, Fools Crow burned off more of the curly hair. He did this several times until the hair was black and crinkly; then he turned the boy over. The movement made One Spot cry out. But now Fools Crow began to pass the burning stick over the green robe, lighting long strips of hair, and the smell made Red Paint feel faint. She looked beyond her mother to Good Young Man, but he was watching intently, mesmerized by the moving stick of fire. Again Fools Crow turned the boy over until he was lying on his stomach. The boy made no sound and Red Paint became frightened.

 

Fools Crow stopped to wipe One Spot’s sweat-drenched head. He looked into the boy’s eyes, but they were opaque and without recognition. Then he turned him again and burned off the last of the hair.
When he had finished, Fools Crow threw a bundle of sage grass onto the fire to purify the air. As he did this, he said a prayer to the Above Ones to take pity on the boy and restore him to health. He asked the Medicine Wolf to take pity on the boy and to forgive him. Then he instructed the women to unwrap One Spot and bathe him with warm water. While they did this, he took some sticky-root and tastes-dry and ground it up into a paste. The women placed the small limp body on a robe and Fools Crow swabbed the paste on the boy’s throat and mouth. They covered him with another robe.

 

Fools Crow sent the two women back to his own lodge, there to prepare some meat and broth. He said he would send Good Young Man to fetch them when they were needed. Heavy Shield Woman was reluctant to leave, but Red Paint talked her out of the lodge. The sudden draft of cold air swirled through the space and dried the sweat on Fools Crow’s face. The lodge smelled of burnt hair and sage and sticky-root.
Good Young Man built up the fire and gave Fools Crow a drink of water. He dipped another cupful and looked questioningly at his younger brother, but the medicine man motioned the youth to sit on the other side of the fire.

 

For the rest of that night Fools Crow beat on his small neck-hide drum. His stick was made of ash, rounded at one end, feathered at the other. He accompanied the slow beat with a monotonous song:
“Medicine Wolf walks with me.
Medicine Wolf is my brother.
Medicine Wolf enters me.
Medicine Wolf is my helper.
”
Fools Crow sang this song over and over and Good Young Man eventually fell asleep. Just before dawn he was awakened by a harsh growling and snapping. He sat up and saw Fools Crow, down on all fours, circling the body, swinging his head from side to side, growling and snapping his teeth at One Spot. He made three circles, sometimes feinting in to snap, other times growling low in his throat. Then Fools Crow wandered off to a bed near the tipi liner. He circled around and around four times, then lay down and curled up like a wolf. He closed his eyes.

 

Sometime after first light, Good Young Man awoke again and it was quiet. He threw back the robe and sat up. Fools Crow knelt beside One Spot, but now he was hunched over, his head down. Good Young Man watched his broad back move up and down with his breathing. Then he slid his legs from beneath the robe and tended to the fire. It was nearly out, but he coaxed a flame out of some dry twigs. When he had the fire crackling, he crept around and looked down at the face of his younger brother. In the half-light of dawn, the face looked pale and shiny, like the belly fat of a blackhorn. Only the skin on the cheek that had been torn away had some color. It was a dull purple, fading to bright pink along the scar. Good Young Man got down on all fours and looked closer. He looked at the chest beneath the robe. Nothing moved. He became frightened, and in his fear he blew on the face. The eyes seemed to move beneath the lids. He blew again, and this time the eyes opened and the brows came down in irritation.
24
THE PARTY THAT MOVED through the cold gray sunlight toward the Four Horns agency on the Milk River spoke very little. They had picked up a wagon track that only three winters ago had not existed but now cut deeply into the earth. The men rode two abreast, bundled up in blankets or capotes. Beneath their outer garments, they wore their finest leggings and shirts and winter moccasins. Most of the men wore fur caps and mittens. Heavy Runner alone wore trousers made of blue trade-cloth. He also wore a bronze medallion that had been presented to him at the last treaty-signing by the representative of the white Grandfather. That and the quillwork design that ran down the outside of his trousers were his only ornamentation. He carried his medicine pipe stem, wrapped in soft elkskin, in his arms.
Beside him rode a Kainah band chief, Sun Calf, a large man with close-set eyes above a large nose. Heavy brass hoops hung from his long earlobes and a white bone breastplate covered his chest. He was not an important chief, but many of the Napikwans took him to be so because of his impressive appearance.
Behind them rode two other Pikuni chiefs, Big Lake and Little Wolf. Big Lake had once been respected by all the Pikunis, but after throwing in with Heavy Runner he lost influence with most of the young warriors and many of the other chiefs who did not trust the Napikwans. Little Wolf was the leader of a small band of Pikunis who possessed little power, but he was the keeper of one of the Sacred Pipe bundles and thought himself an important man.

 

Rides-at-the-door rode behind them, listening to the squeak of saddles and the occasional shudder of a horse. He was not happy and he knew the seizer chiefs would not be happy, for this group was small, only the ones expected to show up, whether for a handout or a treaty-signing. He had hoped that some of the chiefs who sat somewhere between Heavy Runner and Mountain Chief would join them, but their messengers were firm in their refusals. It is a waste of time to be here, thought Rides-at-the-door. I do not speak for anyone. But he could interpret and at least get the seizer chiefs’ message clear. He could take that message back, so the other chiefs would know where they stood. But he already knew where they stood. And the head seizer chief would take their absence as a sign of hostility. And that would give the Napikwans an excuse to deal harshly with the Pikunis and Kainahs. It was clear to Rides-at-the-door that this would be the last of the friendly meetings with the Napikwans, the last chance to reach an agreement that would prevent the seizers from taking control of the Pikuni lands and fates. The only hope this small group of chiefs had—and they had discussed it—was to stall off the seizer movements until spring. Maybe things would quiet down by then. Maybe Sun Chief would think differently about these invaders then.
Rides-at-the-door looked ahead at the back of Heavy Runner. He had a heavy Napikwan blanket draped over his head. He was a good-hearted man who wanted peace for his people, and Rides-at-the-door respected him for that. Even Mountain Chief did not question Heavy Runner’s desire to do what was best—even necessary, in his opinion—for the Pikunis. But this very desire had led him to believe that the Napikwans too wanted what was best for the Indians. He could not see that they only wanted the land, the blackhorn ranges on which to graze their whitehorns, and that the Pikunis were obstacles to the fulfillment of this goal. Heavy Runner was a good man but the wrong man to lead this party.

 

Rides-at-the-door turned in his saddle and looked behind him. Seven young men—three from the Kainahs and four from Heavy Runner’s band—rode alertly, their eyes sweeping the country through which they passed, as though every tree, every hill, every stand of willow concealed fierce eyes that watched them ride into a trap. Even their horses were nervous, dancing behind the more placid animals of the chiefs, heads held high and back, tails arched. They were young horses and, like their riders, ready for any kind of action.
They were riding through the big-leaf and spear-leaf trees along the Milk River. A few winters ago, it had been good hunting for long-legs and wags-his-tails and, before that, bighorns, reallions and sticky-mouths. With the settling of the Napikwans, these animals had moved into the Backbone, which loomed above the riders to the west. Rides-at-the-door looked over at Ear Mountain and, below it, Danger Butte. His people still used the war lodge on the butte. Unlike the others, it was built of logs and then covered with brush. The Snakes also used it on their raiding parties against the Pikunis. Once Three Bears and his party killed five Snakes there, and Three Bears had named his second wife Strikes-the-Snakes-below-the-Ear in honor of the occasion.

 

Now the wagon track moved just outside the big-leafs and began a long curve to the east and south. To the left, the riders could see the low log buildings of a ranch. Four horses held their heads high over the corral rail, watching them. In front of the house, just off the step, stood two children, a boy and a girl, both blond. The girl, nine or ten winters, wore a long tight blue coat. Her thin black-stockinged legs looked like burnt twigs. The boy, a little older, wore a wide-brimmed hat and a brown coat. They both watched the riders with awe.
After the warriors rounded a bend, Heavy Runner pulled up and the others did the same. Before them lay the agency buildings, the squat rectangular structures that the Napikwans seemed to favor. In the center of these outbuildings stood a much larger one, built in the shape of a U with a narrow entrance at the mouth. This log building contained the offices and sleeping places of the Napikwans, as well as the storeroom and shops. Heavy Runner had told the younger men about this place, how it was built to withstand attack, how it contained everything the Napikwans would need, including a deep hole in the middle where they could get water out of the earth. He had told them of the school inside where the bigheaded man could teach them many things. He had taught Heavy Runner how to make his name with a stick that squirted black juice.

 

Now Heavy Runner looked toward the entrance. There were two seizers, one on each side of the gate. A short distance away stood two white lodges, the kind the seizers pitched when they were traveling. But there were no horses and no other people. Heavy Runner was disappointed for he had expected a ceremonial greeting. He liked the way these seizers lined up on their horses and blew their brass pipe. Once, at the big treaty on the Big and Yellow rivers, they had rattled their drums, a fierce thundering roll that had the people ducking behind each other for cover. Heavy Runner had realized then that the Napikwan warriors possessed great medicine.
The gates opened and five men, dressed in the long coats of the seizers, passed through and into one of the white lodges. Heavy Runner turned to the small group and said, “We will ride in with honor. These seizers know how powerful the Pikunis and Kainahs are and they will welcome us with good hearts. Let us meet them with the same.”
With that, Heavy Runner kicked his horse lightly in the ribs. The animal, impatient at being held back that crisp winter morning, broke into a trot and the others followed. They rode across a large snowy field, staying two abreast in the ruts of the wagon trail. The young men behind the chiefs had to hold their horses to the pace, but they too were tempted to break into headlong flight, not necessarily toward the agency buildings.
The soldiers at the gate caught sight of the party at five hundred yards and called to the men who were warming themselves by a stove in one of the tents. They tumbled out, buttoning their coats and checking their weapons. One of them, a hard-looking man with red hair, gave an order and slipped through the gate into the agency compound. The rest assembled before the gate, their rifles across their chests.

 

The sun was high and gray and even Heavy Runner felt uneasy as the party reined in before the soldiers. The young Napikwans looked tense and held their weapons tightly. One of them was turned slightly so that his rifle was pointed at Heavy Runner. Heavy Runner held up his hand in greeting; then he made the sign for Blackfeet people, but the seizers looked confused.
“We are the chiefs of the Pikunis and Kainahs. We have come to council with your chiefs. I am Heavy Runner.”
The seizers did not respond.
Rides-at-the-door eased his horse between Heavy Runner and Sun Calf. Sun Calf looked at him with some annoyance, for he had been trying to stare down the seizers.
Rides-at-the-door spoke to the young man with two stripes on his sleeve. “These chiefs of the Pikunis and Kainahs would speak with the chiefs of the seizers. They have been invited.”
The young man looked up at the broad, fierce Indian face. He was surprised to hear his own tongue coming from such a man. He had only been out west for three months and had not encountered the Indians before. But he had heard stories of savagery and deceit and was not about to let his guard down. The corporal thought this man who spoke English was about to play some kind of trick on him.

 

“We have our orders to secure this gate,” he said.
“Your chiefs wish to see us.”
“The General is being notified. We will know in a moment if it is all right for you to pass.” He looked past the chiefs to the young men who sat with their rifles in their arms. It was bound to be a trick. The sight of these braves, with their paints and ornaments, their weapons at the ready, filled the corporal with apprehension. They seemed larger than white men, and their impassive faces were filled with hate. There was no telling how much damage even a small party could do.
Rides-at-the-door translated the corporal’s words, and a look of consternation passed over Heavy Runner’s face. He was well-known to the Napikwan chiefs. They had always treated him with the hospitality due a chief. Could this signal a change? Perhaps he had led this party into an ambush; perhaps behind that gate stood a hundred seizers, ready to burst forth, rifles roaring with thunder But no—this was simply a mix-up to be endured with dignity and patience.

 

And so the two groups of men waited for several tense moments without speaking but with eyes focused on the slightest movement, with ears tuned to the click of a safety being thrown off or a cartridge being levered into a chamber. But the only sound was the clang of metal on metal from within the compound.
Finally the gate creaked open and the redheaded sergeant led three officers out of the structure. Two of the officers wore their longcoats, but the third stood before the warriors in his tunic and a fur cap. He was a tall, wiry man with dark hair and mustache and a long limp beard that covered only his chin. His blue eyes had a tired look, but they were hard with disappointment as they swept over the small group of Indians. He had expected too much, and as his eyes finally fell on Heavy Runner, he knew the council would be worthless. A thin smile crossed his lips, and he strode forward to shake hands with the chief. Worthless, he thought.

 

After the somewhat cheerless greeting, the mounted warriors were led into the courtyard of the agency. Several soldiers stood at ease in the center beside the well. As the warriors dismounted, they placed their weapons in a rack. The young men relinquished their rifles reluctantly after Heavy Runner set the example. Rides-at-the-door looked around him and hid his surprise at the amount of activity going on. Several Napikwans stood outside the compound doors watching them. Off to his right, partly obscured by a wagon, two women were gesturing with delicate motions. Then he heard the familiar clang of a man striking metal. He had watched such a man down at Many Houses fort and had marveled at the way the man made a rim for a wagon wheel, heating and pounding the iron until it came together in a hoop. For some reason the sound comforted him. If the Napikwans were engaged in such activities, they must think this occasion was not far out of the ordinary. He looked up the pole beside him and saw the red and white flag with the patch of blue in the corner. The white sharp-pointed designs on the blue represented the many territories conquered by the Napikwans. This had been explained to Rides-at-the-door many winters ago by a white many-faces man who had come to camp with the Lone Eaters. He wore a black robe and the Pikunis called him Long Teeth. So long ago, thought Rides-at-the-door. Long Teeth had been different from these Napikwans. He wanted nothing from the Pikunis but a knowledge of their ways and the opportunity to paint their faces on thin white skins he kept in his parfleche. Many of the people were afraid to sit for him, for fear that he would capture Nitsokan, their dream helper. But most trusted him, and for a short time the Pikunis thought that the Napikwans came to them as friends. But Long Teeth himself had told how they conquered all and he did not seem proud.
The redheaded man with the stripes on his sleeve stood before Rides-at-the-door. “The General says you will be allowed to sit in on the meeting, but you will not be allowed to take an active part in the discussions.”
“You know I speak your language?”
“We’ve met before. I saw how you listened.”
Rides-at-the-door suddenly remembered the man. He had been present when the seizers were riding after Mountain Chief the previous summer. He had been with Joe Kipp and the seizer chief. And he remembered how the striped-sleeve had listened to the talk between the chiefs.
“And you speak the Pikuni tongue.”
The striped-sleeve almost smiled. “I learned it from Little Dog back in the days on the Sun River—when he tried his luck at farming. Before your people killed him.”
BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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