Stone Song (8 page)

A quarter-moon later Curly awoke to the sound of the rain-slides-off-the-feathers bird, the owl. Two calls, he remembered now. Maybe even three.

Without sitting up in his blankets he looked around the camp. It was half-shadowy, the first hint of dawn light.

Another hoo-oo, hoo-oo.

Other young men were stirring, reaching for their weapons. They heard what Curly heard—men imitating owls.

Suddenly Spotted Tail burst out of his little travel tipi, brandishing his spear in one hand and his war club in the other. He yelled, “Who wants to fight a true Lakota? Who is man enough?” He dashed around like an incensed goose looking for someone to bite.

Curly flushed with shame. His uncle was playing the fool and would get himself killed.

It came from the gully, fast. Hit Spotted Tail. Knocked him down. Two bodies tumbled over the ground like boulders hurtling downhill. Arms thrashed. Blows, strangled cries, probably bites. The bodies poised, writhing, struggling.

Curly ran toward his uncle, an arrow notched.

A brawny chest rose up above Spotted Tail. A thick arm hefted a club.

Curly knelt quickly and drew his bowstring.

At that moment a dozen riders whipped their mounts into camp, bellowing their battle cries.

Curly held the tip of his arrow on the brawny chest.

Then he lowered it.

The enemies were yelling in Lakota.

A rider tapped him on the shoulder with a coup stick, very lightly.

No Water’s thick arm plunged a knife into the dust next to Spotted Tail’s ear. Spotted Tail’s guffaw filled the camp.

No Water’s face lifted to the sky above the mock-slain Spotted Tail. His voice roared in triumph. Curly couldn’t take his eyes off No Water’s hands.

Spotted Tail gave a death rattle and then cackled.

Then everyone sat down with stories to tell.

No Water, the twins, Pretty Fellow, several other Bad Face youths, and some young Sahiyela had gone out looking for Two Circle ponies, too. Not until they saw the tracks did they realize the Sicangu and Hunkpatila young men had already had their fun with these people.

“It’s nothing to brag about, whipping such unworthy foes,” said Black Twin, “but we want to hear what happened anyway.”

Little Thunder spoke for his young men, Spotted Tail for the gang Curly was in. “We got some horses,” Little Thunder said, not making a big deal of it. “The ones you see there,” he said, nodding toward a rope corral. “The Pani know nothing about horses.”

The chief was bragging by understatement. They had fifteen or twenty good-looking ponies.

Spotted Tail told briefly about stealing the Two Circle ponies and the doubling-back raid. He mentioned Curly’s first coup. This was not a formal telling, like the one they’d have back at the village. Hump sat next to his
hunka
and looked at him happily.

Curly hated to talk in front of groups of people, but it was necessary. He spoke simply. “We surprised the village, got five first coups and four scalps. When the Two Circle warriors began to shoot back hard, we rode off onto a little knoll to rest the ponies. It was then that my uncle, Spotted Tail, showed the strength of his spirit.

“Invulnerable in his power, he charged his pony straight into the fire. He did not fire, because he had no need. He rode like a whirling wind, furious power but nothing to hit. He circled in front of the enemies, gave them his back to shoot at, and rode dancing back to us, his comrades.”

Curly hesitated. He felt a little foolish doing all this talking. “Then,” he went on, “Spotted Tail felt the spirit rise up in his heart once more, and he rode down the mountain at the enemies again, like a storm. They were afraid of his medicine, and he returned to us untouched.”

When Curly finished, the young men gave Spotted Tail the respect of silence.

The camp of the Sicangu was half a sleep away, the visitors said. Tonight they would ride into camp ceremonially, in the manner of victory. They would tell what had happened. Curly’s first coup, Spotted Tail’s great rides, and the other deeds would be told formally to the people. Everyone would dance.

“
Co ho! Co ho!
”

Curly and Hump rolled wearily out of their blankets and stood in front of the wickiup. The dance had lasted until nearly dawn.

“
Co ho! Co ho!
” came the chant again.

Young Man-Whose-Enemies and the others crawled out of their brush huts and looked around warily, eyes blinking at the rising sun.

None of the young Lakota men was early up from his blankets, and maybe the smiles on the faces of the young Sahiyela men were partly because of that. But not entirely, Curly knew.

“
Co ho! Co ho!
” came the chant over and over. It was the young Sahiyela visitors, singing an incantation in their language.

“They want to fight,” said Hump, grinning.

Curly wasn’t good at the words of any language but his own, and not much good with those.

“The kicking game,” Hump said.

“
Co ho! Co ho!
” came the chant, low, insistent. There were half a dozen Sahiyela youths and three times as many young Lakota, plus adults. Curly smiled to himself. Probably enough to make a Lakota winner likely. The guests, the Sahiyela, got to pick the game.

Hump slipped sideways to Young Man-Whose-Enemies and murmured softly, “Yes, the kicking game.”

Young Man-Whose-Enemies nodded happily. Though it was mainly a
Sahiyela game, all the Lakota knew it. The Sahiyela liked to pit one warrior club against another, with wild enthusiasm and violence, but all in good sport. It was a fine way for the Lakota to have fun with their Sahiyela guests.

The game was tricky. You couldn’t use your hands at all, not even to fend off the other fellow’s feet. You had to learn to dodge kicks, knock them aside with your arms, or slip them with your torso. And the maneuver the Sahiyela were best at, leaping into the air and kicking with both feet together, was very difficult.

All the young Lakota grinned at each other. “
Hokahe!
” said someone. It was a joke, a call for violent war against friends.

“
Hokahe!
” cried Buffalo Hump. He was always ready for a war, play or real, and always a wild man. He was the most experienced Lakota and so might do well.

He jerked his head at Curly, meaning, “Let’s go.”

Curly felt it. Hawk in his chest was uneasy. Not lunging at her perch straps, but restless.

He would have to think later about what it meant. Later.

Now he eyed Pretty Fellow. The Bad Face was stronger than Curly would have thought, and smart. He looked slighter than he was. Somehow he’d taken Young Man-Whose-Enemies out of the competition, which got a reaction from the crowd. Two old enmities met, one chief’s son faced the other, and the Bad Face won.

Pretty Fellow was smiling crookedly. It was one of those smiles that said, “This had to come sooner or later, and I welcome the opportunity.”

Curly was surprised. He didn’t care about a killing that had happened when he was one winter old. He didn’t like the way resentments still festered. And he didn’t feel that he represented the Hunkpatila.

Hunh-hunh-he!

Curly jerked away from three right-foot kicks from Pretty Fellow, head high. They were feints, but Curly flinched backward. Pretty Fellow smiled more crookedly, and the crowd chuckled. Then the silence of high anticipation. This Pretty Fellow wasn’t just playing.

All right, Curly wouldn’t play either. He searched in himself for the serenity and concentration Hump had taught him. It wasn’t there. And Hawk in his chest was fidgety. Why didn’t she fly free? Was mock fighting not enough? Or …?

Curly circled to the left. He liked going sunwise, what the
wasicu
called clockwise, the way the sun moved. Somehow he thought Pretty Fellow didn’t. Like most people, Pretty Fellow was right-handed and felt better going to the right. Funny, that was against sunwise. Every dance, all sacred steps of any kind, went sunwise, the natural way for left-handed
people like Curly. But a fighter could get his betters a little offtrack in a fight by circling sunwise. Curly had done it in wrestling lots of times.

“Hey, boy,” said Pretty Fellow mockingly. “Why didn’t you take the Two Circle woman’s scalp? Nice scalp, can’t tell it from a man’s.”

They circled each other.

“What do you say, boy? Something wrong with your knife? It’s dull, maybe?”

Curly paid no attention. He kept his eyes on Pretty Fellow’s middle and legs. That was what would tell.

It was the best two out of three knockdowns. Red Cloud and Spotted Tail settled disputes about whether you had slipped or got knocked down.

The two fighters circled each other.

Everyone still standing was a little older and a little stronger than Curly. Hump was fighting No Water, tall against husky. Black Twin was kicking against a lean, agile, muscular Sahiyela named Little Wolf, who looked like a winner to Curly. Five of the six fighters still standing were Lakota—not bad.

Time to get even for being teased.

Curly made a feint in, just one step. Pretty Fellow didn’t back up, didn’t flinch, acted like he would welcome Curly’s kick. From his cocky look, he would welcome any kick Curly could launch at any speed from any direction. Curly thought Pretty Fellow might even let Curly kick him deliberately, just to show it didn’t affect him, to show that what a younger, smaller boy tried didn’t matter.

Which might be a mistake.

Curly had a thought. He feinted in again.

Then he laughed out loud and called, “
Hokahe!
” and glanced sideways at Spotted Tail and his wife.

No move from Pretty Fellow. He wasn’t fooled. He knew Curly’s attention wasn’t wavering.

Maybe Pretty Fellow wouldn’t expect what came next. One kick without any preparation, a shot at one quick fall. A rush, both feet in the air, body as high as he could get it, a two-footed kick to the head.

It would have to knock Pretty Fellow down, because Curly would be vulnerable afterward, half on the ground, unready. And the next two falls, they would have to take care of themselves.

Hawk in his chest lunged against her ties.
Why?

He bounded. One huge step, a terrific lift—

Pretty Fellow turned sideways, bobbed his head, and threw up one arm.

One of Curly’s feet grazed the upper arm. The other flipped a braid of hair aside.

Whumph! He crashed down onto his back.

Wheeze. Wheeze.

Pretty Fellow laughed, and the crowd tittered.

Finally Curly’s lungs sucked, and air rushed in. Cool, sweet air. He took a moment to start getting up.

“No knockdown,” came Spotted Tail’s voice. Curly could hear keen interest in his uncle’s tone.

Curly was fine. Sort of. Hawk was flapping her wings against his ribs, and he didn’t understand that. It was a distraction.

Suddenly came laughter from the two women, and Curly wondered why. He looked around at the others.

As he got his feet under him, Curly noticed that the Sahiyela Little Wolf had whipped Black Twin and was waiting for a new opponent.

Pretty Fellow charged.

Curly slithered sideways.

The kick got him hard on the side of the ribs in front but slipped off. He spun but didn’t fall.

The next kick got him square on the side of the hip. He went down in a clump.

People laughed. Pretty Fellow chuckled, and his eyes gleamed.

Curly looked up at Pretty Fellow, towering over him. His attention was drawn to Pretty Fellow’s hands, dangling. Again he felt the hands of his own people clutching at him from behind, dragging him back. That’s why Hawk was agitated. Well, at least hands couldn’t hurt him in this game.

Curly thought before he got up to fight.

The last kick had come much too fast after the first one. Pretty Fellow was first-rate. He saw that the bear grease Curly had rubbed on his torso would help the youth slip kicks and maneuvered Curly for a kick to the pelvis, which couldn’t slither.

It was good. Curly’s skill was moving his body so subtly that few blows ever struck him center. Pretty Fellow knew that and had a good counter.

Curly crouched, balanced on his toes, ready to blow in space like a leaf, so that all kicks would glance off.

How could he get Pretty Fellow off balance?

He circled to the left.

“Pretty Fellow will whip you,” his opponent crooned. “One look at your skin, and everyone knows why. It’s white.” He sang tauntingly:

“
Curly is a white man
,

Curly is a white man
.”

Curly felt a touch on his elbow. “Look at me! Look at me!” Curly recognized the voice of Standing Bear, Pretty Fellow’s brother. He didn’t look around.

Hump said softly, “Stay calm, stay clear, relax.”

Curly wasn’t calm, clear, or relaxed. He almost looked Hump’s way.

Smash!

Curly stumbled backward, fighting for balance. His head and neck screamed. And one eye. He touched its edge and pulled away blood. There was a trick to drawing blood from tender skin with your feet. You flicked your toe on impact, using the sewn edge of your moccasin to scrape.

Pretty Fellow was laughing scornfully. He turned his back and waggled his bottom at Curly. The crowd laughed. He waggled it bigger.

Rage took Curly—two steps, the highest and hardest kick he’d ever launched, right at the back of Pretty Fellow’s head.

At that moment Pretty Fellow turned his face.

Heel rammed nose.

Pretty Fellow howled.

Blood spurted over his face and arms and chest. Pretty Fellow bumped to earth, and blood gushed into his lap.

Curly backed away. Hawk’s claws were gouging at him.

Rage
, he told himself. He hadn’t meant to kick Pretty Fellow in the nose. Rage takes over the man and works its ill.

People rushed to Pretty Fellow.

“You broke my nose!” the Bad Face wailed.

“He did that on purpose,” snapped one of the twins harshly. Curly couldn’t tell their voices apart.

“I’m sorry,” said Curly softly, ineffectually. “I was aiming for the back of the head.” But he knew he had lost his calm, had let rage take over.