Raven Mocker (13 page)

T
he country through which they traveled was rough. Not in the sense of crags and bluffs, though there were many of those along the rivers. This land was a series of hills and ridges, steep yet rounded, and mostly heavily timbered. In some respects it reminded her of the mountainous regions near Old Town.

Fortunately, there were trails or roads, begun centuries before by the hooves of deer and the padded feet of the bear. Even smaller creatures made use of the ancient trails—quail, turkeys, and the foxes, bobcats, and other predators who hunt them—and, Man. Moccasined feet had traveled these paths for countless generations, as man utilized the primitive instincts of his fellow creatures, seeking the easiest way to travel from one place to another. Still more recently the tread of horses’ hooves had marked the ancient paths.

In some places there were massive blocks of stone littering the trail, making it necessary for them to thread their way among the fallen slabs from the shelving hillside above.

“I am made to think,” said Fox, “that the white man’s wagon would not do well here.”

The women laughed.

“Maybe,” said Rain Cloud, “that is why there are few
yonegs
here. Those who do come are trappers, and they walk or ride horses, as we do.”

T
hey stopped to trade at towns along the trails. A day without travel was good for both the travelers and their animals.

“A horse spends much time in eating,” Fox explained. “About half the time. But when we travel all day, it is hard for him to get enough to stay fat. Now your mare, there, is an easy keeper. But even she has lost some flesh. Cloud’s gelding loses quickly, and so does the pack horse. Rabbit, there, is always fat.”

Rabbit was the pet name that the trader used for the mule.

“He calls him that because of his ears,” Rain Cloud had explained.

Her husband chuckled. “Well, that and the look on his face,” he said.

Snakewater looked. Yes… It was not that a mule looks like a rabbit, but that this
individual
animal did. The facial structure, the downturned nose, and the big, suspicious eyes… yes, it was easy to see the startled, half-frightened look of a rabbit in the mule’s face.

“I like him,” Fox said. “He draws attention when he cries out, and a trader needs attention. I was told that a mule is stubborn, but I am made to think this: If Rabbit does not want to do something, there is a reason. A pack is slipping, the trail is unsafe—he sees things that we cannot.”

“Things of the spirit?” asked Snakewater.

“Maybe that too,” answered Fox, “but I was thinking of his skill on the road.”

Snakewater was learning to pack the animals, an entirely new experience for her. There was a rhythm, a sequence for looping the lashing across the packsaddle and the bundles, carefully balanced on each side. It required two persons to accomplish the best job, with short, one-word communication at the proper moment.

“Take slack ….”

“Hit!”

Both packers gave the appropriate response, and the four-cornered hitch tightened. Fox was pleased to have
another packer. It was not long until any two of the three travelers could quickly load and pack. This eased the tasks of setting up and breaking camp considerably.

“We should have found you before,” Cloud told Snakewater. “It is good. But did Fox warn you? Rabbit has a bad habit. There is a place on his flank. I’ll show you …. Right there.”

She gently touched the soft flank just in front of and below the hipbone. The mule jumped and squealed, first hunching his back and tucking his muscular hips under him, then lashing out.

Snakewater had seen horses kick. They often do, in play or in a scuffle for superiority in the herd. Never had she seen anything like this. Both heels struck out, straight behind, as sure as the strike of the rattlesnake and almost as swiftly. Just as swiftly it was over. Rabbit stood quietly, almost sleepily, head drooping lazily with eyes half closed.

“So,” laughed Fox, “don’t touch him there!”

A
s they stopped to trade, Snakewater quickly learned some of the trader’s secrets. On one occasion Fox was in the final stages. The potential customer had apparently reached what he considered his limit. His array of the items offered lay on the blanket in front of him. In front of Fox, an almost new rifle. It seemed that the bargaining was about to collapse.

“You will offer nothing more? This is a fine gun,” lamented Fox, disappointed.

“But it is not new,” complained the other. “I do not know if it shoots well.”

Just then Rain Cloud passed by, and paused a moment.

“You are trading your favorite rifle for
that?”
She gestured at the assortment of furs on the blanket between the men. “Huh! Your favorite rifle!”

She marched away indignantly.

The customer hesitated only a moment, then gave a deep sigh. He reached into a pack behind him and drew
out a beautiful mink pelt, nicely tanned, which he added to the display.

“This is my last offer,” he said.

Fox appeared to ponder for a moment, but that was only for appearances.

“Well,” he said finally, “if that is your limit …”

He lifted the gun almost reverently and handed it across, just a hint of doubt in his expression. One would have thought the weapon a family heirloom. In reality Fox had traded for it only a few days before at another town. He had cleaned and greased it, and added some brass tacks to the stock as decorations.

Snakewater, always observant, watched such proceedings with interest. Human nature, though sometimes unpredictable, is often quite transparent. And in the realm of trade a very slight shift of mood is everything. It becomes a matter of showmanship.

A few days after the episode with the rifle, Snakewater noticed a potential trade that had nearly come to a stalemate. The customer was quite indecisive about some shiny ornaments, and she thought that Fox was becoming impatient. Fox would never show that, of course, but it was slowing the rhythm of the trading.

“Fox,” she said abruptly, “I was made to think that your wife wanted to keep those trinkets.”

Instantly the item became more desirable. Fox looked irritated, but that, too, was an act. The trade was quickly completed.

“Snakewater, you would make a good trader!” he told her later. “That was well done.”

H
er other function, that of storytelling, she had not particularly seen as allied to that of the trader. It had been something of a shock to her to find that children were attracted to her. Pigeon had been the reason, initially. But she had found herself associating with the children of West Landing, and
enjoying
them. They, too, enjoyed her. It had been a new experience. All of her life children had feared her and
would even run and hide when she approached. Now she admitted sadly to herself, it had been partly her doing. She could throw a furtive look that would make the most determined child quake in his moccasins.

Now, thanks to Pigeon, Snakewater’s approach to a child was no longer with a glowering stare, but a friendly smile. She was not quite certain how and when that transformation had taken place, or how and why. But something was happening to her.

“Lumpy, did you have anything to do with that? Don’t laugh at me!
Ah!
Go on, then. Disappear, just to show you can.”

Irritably she turned to something else. It was futile to waste emotions on the Little People. She recalled, though, that they are said to have a sense of humor. Would that not be a great joke, to watch a grumpy and disagreeable old hag become an attraction to children? Even Snakewater could see the humor involved. She could not share this theory, of course, because Fox and Rain Cloud had not known her before. They would not understand an account of such a transformation. In truth, she did not understand it herself. She only knew that she was becoming a different person.

W
hen they came to a town, children often ran to meet the strangers out of curiosity, usually accompanied by a number of barking dogs announcing their arrival. The children were sometimes shy at first, peering from behind a tree or bush with wide, wondering eyes. Gradually they would become more courageous, venturing into the open and following the travelers toward the central part of the town. No matter what the tribe or nation, usually there was some sort of open area that served as a meeting place. Even white men had a tendency to plan their towns that way, Snakewater noticed. Maybe it was not a matter of planning, though. Towns, she thought, probably just have a tendency to happen, Little Horse’s settlement of West Landing being a prime example. That town was Cherokee,
but they had passed the towns of several other tribes, and usually stopped to trade. Where there are people, there is the opportunity to trade, Fox reasoned, so why not try? He was cautious about people whose traditions he did not know, and about all white men.

Some are good,” he admitted. “I don’t mind trading with them. But there are bad ears in every cornfield, you know. The same with people—red, black, or white. Sometimes a bad crop.”

Even with this open-minded approach Snakewater noticed that Fox did not tarry in the white man’s towns any longer than necessary. In a town or camp of the Real People he was relaxed and in no hurry. He might even stay an extra day to relax, visit, smoke, and inquire about the road ahead. It was much the same with Choctaw or Muskogee, of which they encountered a few. Others, of unknown background, could often be evaluated in the course of a day of trading. They were usually predictable, which could seldom be said of whites. If the feeling of trust was not there, it was better to move on, no matter what the nationality of the town. This was new territory, with many unknowns, but they were making good contacts that might be profitable for years.

It had become rapidly apparent that the gathering children in a new town were attracted to the new personality of Snakewater. They related to her quickly, and were soon talking with her in a mixture of tongues or in hand signs. She was becoming proficient with sign talk, and usually used signs in addition to the oral narration of her stories. It took very little effort to attract a crowd of listeners for a story fire, both children and adults. The children were always eager to spread the word.

“You like stories?” Snakewater would ask the curious children. “Then come to our fire tonight. Hear some of my stories. Bring your friends, your mother and father!”

Quite often the story fire would be at the town’s gathering place, with local storytellers participating as well.

And the gathering of a crowd for any purpose always encouraged a good attendance for the next day’s trading.

“It is good!” Fox told her, laughing. “I don’t know how we could have traded all these seasons without you. You draw a better crowd than Rabbit!”

T
hey traveled westward, through the spring and early summer, stopping to trade as they went. They spent some time in the towns of the Real People, but also among strangers. Missouri, Osage, Wichita… people with vastly different customs from their own. They encountered a few white men, mostly French, living among these natives. Usually they had Indian wives and families, and had completely adopted the customs of those with whom they lived.

Trading was good, and Fox kept pushing on westward. They were now depending almost completely on hand signs to communicate. They were learning some of the languages they encountered, but the process was slow and cumbersome compared to the ease of the hand talk that Snakewater used even for telling her stories, which still delighted young and old alike. Among the favorites of all the listeners they met were the tales of Rabbit, the mischievous trickster of the Real People. Rabbit always brought smiles to her listeners’ faces. He was agile, quick, and amusing, yet at the same time lazy, indolent, just a bit deceptive …
like most of us
, Snakewater reflected, chuckling to herself. We enjoy Rabbit because we see ourselves in his schemes and in his predicaments. Many of his problems are of his own doing, yet we admire his cleverness in devising his escapes.

Maybe
, she thought,
the young enjoy Rabbit because of his silliness, and the old because of his wisdom.

O
ne time Rabbit and Possum decided that they needed wives. They went to a big stomp dance at the town house, where there were many girls. Rabbit danced with all the girls and was very popular, because his attract-medicine is very powerful. He could have his choice of any of the girls there.

Possum, though, has very poor attract-medicine. His nose is too long and his legs too short. His tail is bare and scaly (how he lost his beautiful furry tail is another story). His teeth are ugly and they show when he smiles.

No one would dance with him, and he was so embarrassed that he pretended to faint, and fell down on the floor. He still does this in emergencies, because he isn’t much of a fighter either.

T
he country was changing now. It was midsummer. They were seeing long stretches of treeless grassland, interspersed with dense patches of scrubby oak thickets. Along the streams heavy timber still grew—oak, sycamore, and cottonwood—as well as several kinds of nuts—hickory, pecan, walnut, and a shrubby hazelnut that bore a heavy crop this year.

Snakewater wondered about that. There was a saying that a heavy nut crop means a bad winter ahead. She had often wondered whether it merely means a good summer
now.
Maybe both. A good summer is often followed by a hard winter. The squirrels were beginning to be active—another sign—but were they gathering nuts simply because there
were
more nuts? This line of reasoning brought her back to her starting point. No matter. She would wait until the hickories and pecans ripened. She’d see if their crops were as heavy as those of the hazelnuts, and how the squirrels might respond.

It was necessary, anyway, to prepare every year for the most severe winter that could be imagined. Truly bad winters were rare, but could happen any year. To guess wrongly on such a matter could be fatal.

That was in the future, however. For now she enjoyed the experience of new country, and of an occasional hunt for squirrels with her blowgun. These were different squirrels from those at home around Old Town. There were some that were similar, gray in color and fleet of foot, but most in this area were larger, nearly twice as heavy, and red, like a fox. They were also fat from feasting on hazelnuts, and provided a welcome change in the diet of the three travelers.

S
nakewater was enjoying all this newness, but she was also experiencing a strange feeling. It was true especially when she would glimpse a large area of grassland ahead as they topped a hill.

I have seen this before!
she would think.

It was not an uncomfortable feeling—rather the opposite.
I am home.
But how could that be true? She had never seen anything like this grassland. She tried to push such feelings aside but with little success.

Then there came a day when Fox, a little way ahead of the others, topped a hill and motioned for the women to join him.

Before them lay an endless rolling prairie, still dotted with scrub oak but more open as they looked westward. Scattered bands of buffalo and elk grazed the tall grasses. Here and there gray wolves circled patiently, waiting for a straggler, an individual too weak or sick to keep up with the moving herds.

Straight in front of them, at a distance of less than half a day’s travel, was a village of conical skin tents. There were perhaps thirty of them, randomly scattered. To the south was a stream marked by willows and cottonwoods, darker green than the prairie grasses. In the bend of that stream and beyond, hundreds of horses grazed, loosely herded by young men on horseback.

Snakewater gasped aloud.

“What is it?” asked Rain Cloud, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“What? Oh …I …No, not wrong. R
ight
, maybe,” Snakewater said softly, hardly above a whisper. “Cloud, this is my dream—the one that led me to join you and Fox. But …”

Bewildered, she looked up into the bright blue of the summer sky. High overhead a pair of red-tailed hawks circles.

I saw this
, she thought with a thrill of excitement.
I saw it, but from up there!

And, as if in answer, one of the hawks screamed its shrill hunting call. Her heart beat faster, and she smiled.

“Yes… thank you, my brother,” she whispered.

A
pair of well-armed young men rode out to greet them.

Fox halted his little procession and they waited for the approach of the scouts.

“These are called ‘wolves,’ ” said Fox quietly.

“Wolves? But why?” asked Snakewater.

“They circle the camp, or the traveling column as they move, as wolves circle a buffalo herd. For a different purpose, of course.” He smiled. “These ‘wolves’ are for protection, not to prey on stragglers. I think it is a joke, in their tongue.”

“You speak their tongue?”

“No, no. I do not know who these might be. But they will use hand signs.”

As if to prove the point the young “wolves” drew rein a few paces from where Fox sat on his horse, his right hand lifted, palm forward. The empty hand, holding no weapon, served as both a greeting and a reassurance,
I come in peace.

The more forward of the young men, who would apparently do the communicating, sat unmoving for a few moments. This for the purpose of maintaining control of the situation. He could keep the newcomers slightly in doubt, a trifle off balance, guessing about their reception. This “wolf” had handled such a situation before.

What do you want?
he indicated with the sign for a
question. It was quickly followed by another question.
How are you called?
(Or,
Who are you?
)

We are traders, signed Fox. I am called “Fox,” but “Trader” comes easier. This, my wife
—he indicated Cloud—
the other, my mother.

Snakewater was not sure that she welcomed such a designation, but understood its use. There was no purpose in trying to explain the relationship any further.

You have trade goods?
asked the young man, gesturing toward the pack animals. Then he seemed to notice the mule for the first time.

“Aiee!”
he said aloud. Then in hand signs:
What is that?

It was apparent that they had not seen a mule before. As if in answer Rabbit, impatient at the delay in stopping for the night, raised his head in a long, loud protesting bellow. The horses of the scouts jumped away in terror, that of the spokesman bucking for a few steps. He quickly regained control and glanced around angrily.

He will do no harm
, Fox signed quickly.
It is his way of speaking.

The other man still appeared suspicious but was calming somewhat. Now he showed interest in the fact that the mule was calmly grazing.

It is much like a horse?
he signed.

Yes
, replied Fox.
I was about to tell you. My horse died, and we caught this large rabbit to carry packs ….

Suspicion still stiffened the expression on the face of the scout. Then he suddenly seemed to realize that it was a joke. He smiled.

A very loud rabbit!
he signed, a sarcastic look on his face.
Come on …I will take you to our chief.

“How do they have a meeting with no town house?” asked Snakewater.

“Outside, when the weather is good,” Fox explained. “But there is room for many in one of the big lodges. The leaders meet in the house of the chieftain. We will go there now.”

A
s it happened, they had no chance to enter the lodge of the chief. As they entered the camp, Rabbit once more announced his presence, scattering children and dogs like quail. People popped out of lodges, some with weapons ready. Their escort called something to the crowd, and the expressions of fear or concern began to change. For a few moments there was puzzlement, gradually changing to humor as the people began to realize that there was no danger. The young scout called out again, and there was general laughter.

I told them
, he signed,
that the trader has a large singing rabbit to attract a crowd.

“I am made to think,” said Fox to the two women, “that trading here should be good.”

T
hey were escorted to the lodge of the band’s chieftain, who was a handsome man of middle age.

“Ah-koh!”
said the man aloud.

“Ah-koh,”
answered Fox. Then, in hand signs,
We do not speak your tongue, Uncle, but we come to trade. I am called Fox, or Trader.

So I have heard
, signed the chief, with a sweeping gesture at the crowd that now followed the trader’s party.

I have some gifts
, said Fox in hand signs. He reached into his small pack and took out a knife and a couple of small mirrors.
How many wives have you?
He gestured with the mirrors.

Only two.

An attractive young woman looked out the door of the lodge and ducked back inside.

My daughter
, explained the chief.

She deserves a mirror, too
, Fox stated, bringing out another.

It is good
, signed the chief, obviously pleased.
Camp with us, trader! I am called Far Thunder.

“I am made to think,” said Fox to the women, “that we will like these people.”