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Authors: James Welch

Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (34 page)

BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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Now Fools Crow stared at Pretty-on-top. He knew that the soft young man had become a spirit-man in the manner of the Napikwans, and for an instant he doubted the power of the Pikuni medicine, of Mik-api and Boss Ribs’ medicine and of his own puny efforts. Then a thought came to him that caused his breath to catch in his throat. Suppose this Sturgis had come to infect the Lone Eaters? He did not bring the Napikwan medicine and he knew the Pikuni medicine was weak. Perhaps he brought the sickness instead? Fools Crow watched Three Bears light his ceremonial pipe. It was much valued for the red stone of its bowl. In happier days, before the Napikwans came in great numbers, Three Bears had obtained it in a trade with the Dirt Lodge People. Now the white-scabs came from the Dirt Lodge People. Three Bears passed the pipe to his right, to Sturgis. The white man did not hesitate; he puffed three times, blowing the smoke upward, then passed the pipe on to Pretty-on-top. The young man held the pipe by the red bowl. He glanced across the circle to Mik-api, but the old man was tracing patterns on the quillwork on top of his winter moccasin. All the other eyes were on Pretty-on-top as he finally put the pipe to his lips and drew in the warm smoke. Often when a man is put to the test, the others breathe in and out with him in a kind of relief. But this time the others held their breath too long, and it was clear that they too no longer trusted Pretty-on-top. It was one thing to smoke with a Napikwan, but another to trust a Pikuni who had taken on the Napikwan’s ways.
The two visitors were taken to Rides-at-the-door’s smaller lodge to rest up for their return trip. The men sat silently staring at the small fire. All of them had relatives in the afflicted camps. Now each man wondered who among his own kin would not appear at the Sun Dance encampment next Home Days. And they wondered when the first survivors would find their way to the camp of the Lone Eaters. How many would come? How would they all eat? Winters were difficult in the best of times, but with so many in one place, the animals would be hunted out in a short time. All would face hunger, perhaps starvation. And if the survivors brought the white-scabs ...
It was Sits-in-the-middle who broke the silence. “How can we turn away our own relatives? Would we see them die piteously on the edge of our camp? Would we shoot them if they tried to enter?”
“That is not our way,” said Three Bears.
“But the Napikwan says we must do this.” Sits-in-the-middle looked around the circle. “Even Pretty-on-top says this is the way it must be.”
“Do you listen to Pretty-on-top who wears the Napikwan’s clothes, who sleeps in the Napikwan’s bed?”
The sudden anger of Fools Crow’s voice made Mik-api look up for the first time since entering the lodge. “I do not think he is a bad man,” he said. “It is true he has taken to the white man’s ways, but I think in his heart he is still a Pikuni. He smokes the pipe with his brothers.”
“And what about the white man Sturgis?” Three Bears addressed Mik-api, but his eyes were on Fools Crow.
“It is natural for us not to trust this man, for we have never had much luck with the Napikwans. But I find this one different. He suffers the loss of his wife. He suffers the loss of her people. The Black Patched Moccasins trusted him. Many of us know and respect the judgment of Takes Gun—he has joined many parties against our enemies. If he trusts this Napikwan, we would be wise to respect that trust.”
“I feel as you do, Mik-api. I find no deceit in this man. But what he says makes my heart fall down. If his medicine will not help the Pikunis, then I fear many of us, our young ones, will go to the Sand Hills.”
“Perhaps we should move camp.” Rides-at-the-door spoke so quietly that the others were not sure he had spoken at all. “Perhaps we should move across the Medicine Line, to Old Man River. The Siksikas would let us camp there until Cold Maker retreated to his house in the north.”
“Or we could go to the agency on the Milk River. They would have to take us in.”
“I’m afraid that all the afflicted ones, the ones healthy enough to make it, will be there, Sits-in-the-middle. That direction would bring us death.”
“But why must we leave our ranges? There are no blackhorns in the country of the Siksikas. We would have to eat the slippery swimmers. I would go into the Backbone and eat the bighorns and white bigheads before I would eat the Siksikas’ food.” Sits-in-the-middle looked at Fools Crow as if he sensed that the young man would be with him.

 

But Fools Crow was ashamed of himself for his outburst against Pretty-on-top. He was there to listen, not speak, not speak so violently against one who had chosen another way. He had spoken out of place against one who was not there. But he also had been thinking about what his father had said. In some ways he agreed with Sits-in-the-middle. It would be better to winter in their own country. If they went south they could find game and be far enough away from the other camps to spend the winter untouched by the bad spirit of the white man’s disease. Why then would his father suggest they go north, into the teeth of Cold Maker’s fury? It was true that the Siksikas were their relatives. They would take the Lone Eaters into their country and help them. But to leave their ranges in the middle of winter ...?
Then it came to Fools Crow as though it had been in the fire all along, in the smoky curls that drifted straight up to the smoke hole, and he spoke again. “There, the Napikwans are not thick like ants. They do not wish to make the Pikunis cry. These seizers here will ride us down before the moon of the new grass.”
Rides-at-the-door said nothing, but a look of pride softened his eyes.
The other men in the lodge let Fools Crow’s words hang in the air. For the last several sleeps they had put the threat of these invaders out of their minds. They had listened to Rides-at-the-door’s account of his meeting with General Sully and they had watched him ride off to council with the band chiefs at the camp of the Hard Topknots. Even Mountain Chief had been there. But when Rides-at-the-door had returned two days later, they saw the look of dejection on his face and they knew that the chiefs had rejected the seizer chief’s demands. The dread they had felt then returned now and, coupled with the immediate threat of the white-scabs disease, made their world seem hopeless.

 

“Perhaps we should call the societies together,” said Three Bears. His voice was low and far away.
27
THE WAR LODGE beneath the chimney of Bad Horse Butte looked deserted. Fast Horse and Owl Child dismounted wearily. The day had turned cold, and Fast Horse had his buffalo coat buttoned to the neck. A thin snow lay on the landscape. They had not encountered any sign of horses or humans, but Owl Child had the others scout the far side of the butte.
Owl Child stayed with the horses while Fast Horse approached the war lodge with his short-gun drawn. He came from the side toward the entrance. A large pine bough lay bulky and dark on the ground, not quite covered by the fresh snow. Fast Horse squatted beside the opening and peered in. It was dark inside the lodge and at first he saw nothing. He put his head inside, and his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the boughs. He saw first the tripod with a small carcass hanging over the gray ash of a cold fire. Then he saw a long tan shape like that of a wags-his-tail. He ducked through the entrance and stood just inside. The shape lay beneath a tanned-on-both-sides robe. It was a man.
Fast Horse crept around the cold fire and poked the robe with his short-gun, but the man lay still and stiff. He pulled back a corner and saw a moccasin and legging. Then he threw the robe all the way off. It was a Pikuni man lying on his side, a long braid across his eyes. The braid was wrapped in otter. He glanced around the lodge and saw the backrest. There were three blotches of dried blood on the willow sticks, the one in the center darker, bigger. He saw a pemmican sack partially eaten away by mice. He looked down at the man again and saw the hands with no fingers. He squatted to move the otter-wrapped braid from the face but he already knew who it was; instead, he watched the hands that he had caused to become this way that long-ago night in the Crow camp. A small cold wind blew through the boughs that covered the lodge, but he didn’t feel it.
28
FOOLS CROW COULD NOT SLEEP that night. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the fire in the big lodge. And he heard the voices, some loud, some strangely muted, some angry, some reasonable. All the voices entered his head and troubled him, and he could not sleep.
Red Paint rolled onto her side away from him, and he tucked the sleeping robe under her knees and over her shoulder. He allowed his hand to brush against her belly and marveled again at its round tautness. Earlier that day when she prepared to get water he had offered to help her and she had chided him. Did he want her to get fat and lazy, good only for gossip like White Grass Woman? Perhaps he preferred that fat cow to her? And when he protested, she reminded him that the other men would call him an old woman, and how could she live with such a human being? Fools Crow had smiled but the point was well taken. She would decide when she could no longer work.

 

He reached across her body and pushed a couple of sticks farther into the fire. Then he lay back and stared up at the flickering shadows on the tipi walls.
All the men’s societies had been represented. Because these societies encompassed all the bands, many of the important society chiefs were not among the Lone Eaters. The Raven Carriers had only one member in the camp. He was a man of fifty winters and was known as a stubborn man even among the other Raven Carriers. His name was Heavy Elk, and it was he who spoke first after Three Bears had explained their situation.

 

“I have many relatives among the Small Brittle Fats and Small Robes. One of my daughters is married into the Never Laughs people. You know her husband, Many Spotted Skins. He is a chief and a strong man among the Raven Carriers. He has many scalp locks hanging from his war shirt. How can I refuse him the safety of my lodge? Am I to tell my daughter that she is not welcome in the camp of the Lone Eaters? If we cross the Medicine Line, my relatives will come here and die, and when they go to the Sand Hills they will tell the before-fathers that Heavy Elk ran away when they needed him.” He looked around the lodge. He had an intense, angular face and many of the men looked away from him. But others murmured their assent.
The council went like that all night. First they were against moving, then they were in favor of it, back and forth, until the speakers reached an exhausted impasse. Three Bears and Rides-at-the-door spoke, but their words carried little weight in the heated talk. Mik-api did not speak, for this discussion had nothing to do with many-face men. If their medicine had worked against this white-scabs disease, the fierce arguing would not have been necessary, for few of the men in the lodge were inclined to run away from the Napikwans. Fools Crow was surprised at this. It was as though the men had decided, individually and without thinking about it, that they would not allow the Napikwans to drive them from their land. Fools Crow was also surprised and puzzled that his father did not press this issue. Once, during a lull while the men smoked, he almost spoke to his father to ask him why he didn’t point out the advantages of crossing the Medicine Line. But his father’s jaw was rigid and Fools Crow knew that he was running out of patience with his own reasonableness and the reaction to it. Fools Crow had seen this new attitude during the past eight sleeps, since his father had returned from the meeting with the Pikuni chiefs. It seemed that the people did not want to give in to the Napikwans in any way—they did not want to return the Napikwan horses, they did not wish to turn Owl Child over to the seizers, they had no desire even to discuss the presence of the Napikwans. Either they felt that the Napikwans would go away if they ignored them, or they were ready to fight when the time came.

 

In the end nothing was decided, and that was the way it had been lately. As Fools Crow lay in the shadowy lodge, listening to his wife’s sleeping breath, he felt the impotence that had fallen over his people like snow in the night. Before the coming of the Napikwans, decisions had been made. There was always the arguing, but in the end, the men had made a decision and all had abided by it. Fools Crow’s grandfather had told of a much simpler life when the decisions were easier—when to move camp, when to go to the trading house across the Medicine Line, where the hunting would be best, if it was time to raid the Crow or Snake horses. Now, each decision meant a change in their way of life. And what about Fools Crow? How would he decide if he had to speak for the people? If the Lone Eaters crossed the Medicine Line, the chances were good that their country would be in the Napikwans’ hands when they returned. And, too, the white-scabs might wipe out the Pikunis and there would be nothing to return to, for without their relatives the Lone Eaters would be nothing more than a small wandering band with no home.
Fools Crow shuddered and realized he was sweating. He moved away from Red Paint’s body, and his eyes fell on the scalp he had taken from Bull Shield. It hung glistening in the firelight from a lodgepole. I was powerful then, he thought, my luck was good. But what good is your own power when the people are suffering, when their minds are scattering like horses in the four directions? Was Sun Chief laughing at them, not content just to abandon them? Why must he pull them apart? Why must he make them abandon each other? Fools Crow closed his eyes and listened to the voices in the lodge once again, but this time they all merged into one mumbling drone that went on and on until Fools Crow finally drifted away to the world of Nitsokan, dream helper.
BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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