Medicine Road (16 page)

When he walked away, the flushed women parted
to let him through, the white-faced men going awkwardly back to their staring into the sifting cook-fire
ashes. A pin, dropped in the ankle-deep dust of the
campground, could have been heard in Kansas City.

For an hour Jesse sat in the noon shade of the outermost emigrant wagon, watching the activity in the
Indian camp across the meadow. It never ceased to
amaze him the way these red nomads would move
in on a chunk of sagebrush and make a city of it in
sixty minutes. This bunch was no exception. Every
lodge had its assigned place in the pitching plan,
carried its own cover skins, poles, floor robes, and
sleeping-furs. Even as Jesse watched, the teepees sprang up like dirty brown mushrooms, growing in
a dopa, or square, of four groups of lodges centered
around an open, middle square. This central square
was the dance and council grounds, the middle
space always reserved for the communal palavers
and various ceremonial stomps forever taking place
in any high plains village. The mountain man
waited until the last lodge skin was in place and the
older Indian boys had started scattering the pony
herd out along the riverbanks to graze, then he took
a look at the pan of his rifle, eased the Sioux skinning knife in its sheath, and stepped up on the dozing Heyoka.

Riding toward the camp, he was struck by two
things-the abnormal quiet of the red village, and
its respectable size. The first, a man would know
from his vivid memories of the usual pandemonium
of squealing children, strident-voiced squaws, and
yapping camp curs that provided the audible atmosphere of the average plains village, particularly one
that had just been set up. Among these tall, smokestained lodges, even the dogs seemed to move in unnatural and skulking silence. The second, any
mountain man could gather by counting his fingers
five times. There were fifty lodges of the red sons,
and putting the prairie rule of thumb to that number
(five Indians to the lodge) you came out with around
250 Arapahoes.

The minute Jesse had noted, from his first sight of
this village, that it was a Wind River band, he had
thought of the warrior pack of the same tribe that
had attempted to waylay old Gabe's supply train in
Jackpine Slash. This village was just of a size to be
Watonga's, for the same rule of thumb that gave you
five Indians of all cuts to a lodge, gave you two war riors. Hence, two warriors times fifty lodges came
out Black Coyote. Maybe.

Nearing the village, a third thing began working
in the back of his head. So far he had seen halfgrown boys, squaws, small children, oldsters. Dart
as it would through the camp streets and around the
center square, his roving glance failed to bounce off
a single, full-feather buck. From what a man could
see, granting he was seeing wide and guessful, there
wasn't a trail-grade warrior in the camp. One thing
about that hunch. He could nail it down once he got
into the camp.

That was a good guess, as far as it went. Trouble
was, it didn't go far enough. 100 yards out from the
lodges, three Indian horsemen broke from the nearest cluster of teepees. Riding abreast, the Arapahoes
bore down on Jesse, blocking his approach to the
village. The mountain man reined in Heyoka, sat
waiting, slack-shouldered and watchful.

The riders were old men, each of them clearly an
elder chief and warrior of past reputation. Their
spokesman, a withered giant wearing a red-flannel
undershirt, U.S. Infantry pants, and a single scarlet
heron plume slanting through his gray braids,
pulled up his pony, facing Jesse.

"Hau, the white brother comes in peace?"

"Hau," Jesse responded, gravely touching the
fingertips of his left hand to his forehead.
"Woyuonihan!"

It was the Sioux word and gesture of respect for
the elder warrior of undoubted reputation. The old
man was pleased but not, in this case, to be flattered
off his original query. "The Wasicun comes in peace?"
he repeated, his rheumy eyes lingering on the beautifully engraved rifle resting across Heyoka's withers.

Jesse upended the gun, firing it into the air.
"Wolkota wa yaka cola." He intoned the phrase in the
rumbling growl of the Minniconjou Sioux.

The three oldsters nodded seriously. Waste, good,
this Wasicun talked with a red tongue. The words
Jesse had used were those engraved on the sacred
ceremonial pipe of peace of the Sioux nation. Their
text and translation were known to every plains
tribe west of the Mini Sosi. By their use the mountain man had pledged his real honor that he came
without war in his heart.

"Hohahe," the old man responded, using Sioux in
courtesy, "welcome to our teepees. I am Old Horse.
Here are Beaver Face and Bull-In-The-Pants."

Jesse threw a snap glance and a nod at the other
two, swallowing the smile that wanted to follow the
greeting. Man, you try and tie a redskin when it
came to slapping the right tag on a package of
goods! That Beaver Face had a set of filed buckteeth
fit to make stove wood out of any six-foot saw log.
As for Bull-In-The-Pants, the old devil's looselipped countenance showed such a clear trail of
pockmarked lechery that a man had to know, right
off, that he was as well named as his companion.

"Ha ho, thank you." Jesse made the courtesy sign
again. "I am Tokeya Sha, the Minniconjou. The Fox
lodge brother of Ikuhansuka, Long Chin, and Mato
Luta, Scarlet Bear."

He threw the names at them, hawk-eying their
graven faces for a wrinkle shift of recognition. Those
were big names on the war shield of the north
plains, and, if the old coots were Black Coyote's
boys, they'd likely know them.

But the old men sat still. They didn't share the
flick of an eyelid muscle among them.

"Who is chief of your village? Whose village is behind you there? Whose name do you serve?" Jesse
barked the questions peremptorily, like a Sioux chief
talking to mound dwellers.

Old Horse was no mound dweller, and barked
right back at him. "Heavy Otter. That's young
Heavy Otter, not the old man. And you will not talk
to me in a voice like that again."

"Wonunicun, it was a mistake. Tell me, father"Jesse caught the old man's eye, pegging it down"are you sure this Heavy Otter does not have a
black skin? Big sharp ears? A bushy tail? You
know, father. Much like those of a very darkcolored coyote?"

If the old man took the barb on that hook, he
didn't break water over it. "My voice was clear. I
said Heavy Otter. There is only one young Heavy
Otter. Him, I serve. And no other."

"What does he look like, this Heavy Otter? I
knew a Heavy Otter among your people when I was
a boy." Jesse had never heard the name, was rebaiting his line for another cast.

"Short. Big belly. Weak chin. Bad color. Pale, almost like a Wasicun." Old Horse eyed the mountain
man, daring him to call the lie.

Jesse moved his shoulders deprecatingly. "Let us
go, my brothers"-nodding toward the too-quiet
village-"I would meet this Heavy Otter. He
sounds like him I knew."

"No!" There weren't any two ways about the tone
in which Old Horse snapped that "no". It didn't
mean anything but "nix". The Arapahoes were turning their ponies with it.

"How do you mean that, father?" Jesse tried for a
delayer, caught one.

The old man halted. "He's gone. Heavy Otter is
gone. Nohetto."

"No!" The mountain man's own denial was as flat
as Old Horse's had been. "That's not all!"

"Now what do you mean, nephew?" The first ripple of interest spread across the blank pond of the
old chief's face.

"The warriors are gone, too. All gone. Every one
of them."

The two gaunt oldsters backing Old Horse shifted
their trade muskets to let them look at Jesse. Old
Horse warned them with a scowl, turned to regard
the white man. His leathered lips lifted, exposing
the yellowed fangs beneath. Jesse imagined it was
intended for a grin.

"Oh sure. You are right, nephew. Why should I
deceive you who has lived among us? They're all
gone. With Heavy Otter. Hunting buffalo. Trying to
find some fat cows. Down there, some place...." He
pointed east, down the Black Fork. "That's why we
are here. Just us old ones and the women and children, as you see. Waiting for the braves to find those
young cows. That's how it is. Do you see it now?"

"Of course, uncle." Jesse knew the talk was over,
carefully mimicked the old man's indifference.
"That's how it is. I see it now. Well, thank you."

With the words, he was turning Heyoka for the
emigrant camp, checked her suddenly, as though he
had only now been taken with a major idea.

"Say. Listen to this. My manners are like an untaught dog's. Will my father not come to the Wasicun
fires tonight? Do me that honor, will you? There will
be some roast mule, just the tenderloins and the
back fat, and a few presents. A little sugar, maybe,
uncle. Some tobacco, too, perhaps. Who can tell? My goddams come from the east at sundown, heavyloaded. Choteau goddams, uncle. Big Company
goddams. Carrying many things to the blanket
chief at the fort. You savvy Big Throat? You see?"

"Ha ho," grunted Old Horse delightedly. "We will
come. All of us."

"Oh, no!" Jesse was quick. "Just those of reputation. Just you real warriors. Just you chiefs. Tokeya
Sha feeds no squaws."

Flattered, Old Horse bobbed his head. "Waste, just
the chiefs, then. We will come. When the night hawk
whistles."

Jesse saluted them as they rode away, turned
Heyoka for the emigrant camp, his dark face scowling. Damn their night hawk whistles. He didn't like
the looks of those old birds, nor of that big, empty
camp they had come out of. The whole damned
river bottom was getting so thick with Indian smell
it stank clean to a man's moccasin tops. Aii-eee,
brother. If Heavy Otter's other name wasn't Watonga, Jesse Callahan would chaw the core out of
Andy Hobbs's beaver hat!

Back at the emigrant camp, Jesse found Tom
Yarbrough and three of the other men, Seth Mason,
Brown, and Hanks, waiting for him. There was no
sign of Tim O'Mara and the others, or of any of the
women.

"Folks are resting back in the grove," offered
Tom. "Tim's wandered off somewheres down the
Fork. Kids are with the women."

"It's all right, for now," Jesse answered. "There's
nothing to worry about from those Injuns, right off.
Their braves are all down the Black Fork running
buffalo." The men nodded apathetically, and Jesse
continued. "But I want a guard posted just the same.
The four of you keep your eyes peeled. If you see
any mounted Injuns coming into that camp, or riding out of it, come running for me. I've been riding
all night and I'm tuckered. Right now I'm going
back to the slough and wash off. Catch me a catnap,
too, most likely. Remember. If you see anything,
fetch me, instanter. You got that?"

More nods and a half-hearted assurance from
Tom Yarbrough had to do for his answer. Heading
into the grove and glancing back to see what the
men were doing about his warning, he noted that
Tom was talking to the others, apparently assigning
them their guard spots. They, in turn, seemed to be
arguing back. Jesse shrugged, turning his back on
them. There was one stock of goods God never ran
low on, and that was fools.

At the slough he shucked out of his buckskins and
had his dip. The backwater was soft and soapy like
all the mountain water. It let a man's muscles down
and lowered his eyelids.

Crawling out on the same bar where he had surprised Lacey O'Mara, he stretched, bare belly down,
on the drowsy sand. It seemed that with his nose to
the warm bank he could almost smell where she had
been spread out. Stretching again, he squirmed his
legs, flexing his corded arms. Be damned, he wished
he had her there, right now! Just the way he had
seen her....

Jesse came awake with something very wrong with
his rear end. He'd had the same feeling once many
years ago when he and Waniyetula (Winter Boy,
Jesse's particular brother among the Minniconjou)
had been out arrow-hunting snow hares. Winter Boy
had jumped one of the big white bunnies and the
tricky devil had doubled back to run right between
the legs of Tokeya, the Red Fox-who just happened
to be looking the other way. Full eye for the chase
and none at all for his companion's backside, the
Sioux youth had let drive with his hunting bow.
Winter Boy had managed to assuage the ordeal of
pulling the arrow out of his friend's posterior by as suring his brother, Tokeya, that he was now the only
fox in the Sioux nation with two butt holes.

When that little arrow had come out, it had felt
like whatever was wrong with Jesse's rear end at the
present moment. The mountain man came up off the
sandbank, grabbing and fanning all at the same
time. Tender investigation showed no apparent
damage and Jesse was about to admit he'd been bitten by a snake dream, when his eye mirrored a foreign sun flash from the shade of a nearby brush
clump. One headlong dive into the suspect cover retrieved two affectionately related articles: a pintsized, carrot-topped boy of seven, and an outsize,
pocket magnifying glass.