The Changing Wind (19 page)

Now the lead cow and her companions felt better, having angled away from the man-smell. They moved on, into the ever-narrowing trap, even pausing to graze a little. A long bowshot from the cliff’s edge, Elk felt a sense of unrest among the leaders. Something was not quite right. They stared southward and sniffed the air, trying to make up for limited eyesight with their keen sense of smell. But the breeze continued to favor Elk’s undertaking. What little stirring there was had continued to move from the northeast, pushing the herd almost unconsciously to the southwest, toward the angle where the ravine met the cliff’s edge. His main concern was whether they would come close enough.

The lead cow now decided that something was wrong. She circled, snorting nervously, turning back toward the prairie.
No
, Elk thought,
she must not do that!
Tense and sweating, even in the chill autumn air, Elk stepped from behind his boulder and assumed the position of the calf whose skin he now wore. A few steps into the open…
now! He
voiced the bleat of a calf in trouble, the tremulous scream for help that would strike to the heart of every mother in the herd. In an instant, a dozen alarmed cows came thundering toward him. It was an alarming thing, seeing that charge and knowing that the edge of the cliff
was only a step or two behind him. He bleated in terror again, and the rush came on. He hoped that the hunters in the north end of the ravine understood their part in this scheme.

At the last possible moment, Small Elk dodged out of the path of the thundering animals and took refuge behind his boulder. The confused animals slid to a stop, almost at the rim, and milled uncertainly, unsure at the calf’s sudden disappearance. Elk crouched there, wondering what they would do if they discovered him. But the great shaggy heads turned this way and that in confusion. The notoriously poor eyesight of the buffalo was helping him. In addition, his scent was obscured, not only by the herbs he had used to anoint himself but by the cloud of dust raised by pounding hooves.

What was wrong? The moments dragged past. The hunters to the north should have acted by now.

Then he heard it. A chorus of yells in the distance, followed by a low rumble as the herd began to run. Ah, finally! He could visualize the men, jumping from concealment to startle the herd. Shouting, flapping robes, swinging their arms, and rushing forward as if in attack. The buffalo, if they behaved as he expected, would come crowding down upon the ones near the rim. Their course as they ran would be somewhat limited by the man-smell of the carefully placed objects on the east and on the west, by the ravine where bowmen lay hidden. The crushing force of the herd would push down the narrowing course….

The thunder was louder now. The animals that he could see were milling in panic. A few broke away toward the east, but the smells from the camp would soon deter them. Others tried to escape into the broken rocks of the ravine to the west. Elk could see that direction quite clearly. Hunters rose up, yelling and shooting. The animals tried to turn back toward the open prairie but were met by the oncoming rush. There was a crash as the main portion of the herd smashed into those near the cliff’s rim. Animals fell, to be trampled into the dust by those coming on. The herd was pushing, thrusting, running in panic. Elk saw the first cow, helplessly struggling, go over the edge. Another balanced for a moment, scrambling to survive, then toppled and fell. Yet another, and then the full force of the
rush came, dozens of them, realizing their doom at the last moment but pushed by the relentless thrust from behind. It was like a gigantic brown waterfall, with death waiting at the bottom.

Then, suddenly, it was over. The survivors split into smaller groups and broke away, east or west, it did not matter now. People were rushing forward, laughing and cheering the success of the hunt. From the direction of the village, women and children began to straggle out to begin butchering and preparing the meat.

Small Elk stood up and began to untie the thongs of the calfskin. It was over. Finally, the drought and the threat of famine were at an end.

T
he thunder died, to be replaced by shouts of joy and cheers of triumph. But there was to be mourning too.

“Where is Antelope? I cannot find him!”

“He was in the ravine. Otter, did you see him?”

“There he is! What about those on the north end?”

“They are safe.”

Confusing reports and rumors flew back and forth as relatives searched for missing hunters in the aftermath of the carnage. The men from the north end came straggling in. The scattered survivors of the herd, they reported, had fled out into the prairie where they were grouping together again. Barking Fox was dead, tossed and gored by an aggressive cow in her escape. The family of Fox began the Song of Mourning as they started out to retrieve the body. Short Bow went with the mourners to show them the way.

The task of skinning had already begun when Cat Woman, wife of the Southern band’s leader, began to inquire as to his whereabouts. She had at first supposed him to be assisting others who might be in need of help.

“Small Elk, have you seen Broken Horn?” she inquired.

“Of course, Mother, he was directly opposite me, where the ravine meets the cliff, there.”

“I mean now, since the rush of the herd.”

“I… I am not sure. Maybe… come, we will ask Black Bear. He was on that side.”

“… not since the herd went over,” Bear admitted. “He was on my left, and I saw him stand to shoot.”

“Aiee
, Broken Horn is too old to do these things,” his worried spouse fretted. “He thinks he has to show the young men.”

“He has shown us much, Mother,” Black Bear said. “He gives us of his strength.”

“He is a good leader,” added Small Elk.

The two young men were still with Cat Woman when a wail of anguish came from below the cliff. The first of the People had made their way down to evaluate the extent of the kill.

Small Elk stepped to the edge and peered cautiously below. He could see a jumble of brown bodies. A few animals that had survived the fall were crippling away, and a few hunters pursued to finish them. Elk could not see the area from which the wailing came. There were trees that obscured the view of that sector, where the ravine opened below.

“What is it?” he called, dreading the answer.

“Broken Horn!” came the reply. “He is dead. He went over the edge with the buffalo!”

At Small Elk’s elbow, Cat Woman gave a long shriek of grief and began to chant the mournful cadence of the Song of Mourning. She had feared the worst, and her fears had proved true.

The immediate family of Broken Horn quickly received the ill tidings, and began to chant the Mourning Song. Others joined in, for Broken Horn had been a good leader for a long time and would be missed. Close friends assisted in the retrieval of the body, and the traditional mourning continued.

But life goes on. Even as the mourners paused for their sad tasks, others began to skin and butcher the buffalo kill. The immensity of the food supply that had come to the People was beyond imagination. It was apparent that some of the meat would be wasted, even with the cooperation of every pair of hands, down to those of the smallest child. However, it was important to salvage as much as possible. Any dried meat, pemmican, and robes not immediately needed for the winter could be traded to the Growers for corn, beans, and pumpkins.

The work was beginning. Those most adept at skinning assisted others by slitting the hides up the belly and down the inside of each leg. Then the removal progressed, and the fresh skins were spread, flesh-side-up, on the ground. As meat was removed from the carcass it was piled on a skin to be transported, as time permitted, back to the village.
In anticipation of a feast, some of the men hacked out chunks from the humps of some of the choicest animals. Fresh, crisply broiled hump-ribs, with their extra layer of flavorful suet, would be a treat that the People had not enjoyed for many moons.

“Small Elk!” someone called. “Over here. We need you to make the apology!”

Three men stood waiting with the severed head of the largest bull. This would be an important ceremony, the most important for generations, for this hunt had provided the kill that would enable the Southern band to survive. Small Elk walked over to the three.

“White Buffalo should do this,” he explained. “I am only his assistant.”

“We asked him,” said Black Bear. “He said to find you, that your skill made the big kill possible.”

“Is this true?” Elk asked the others. “White Buffalo said this?”

“Yes, of course, Elk. We would not say untruth about such a thing.”

Elk stood for a moment in stunned astonishment. It was the greatest honor his father had ever granted him. He would have gone to White Buffalo to talk to him, but time was passing. The ceremony must be completed, and the hard work of preparing the meat must go on.

“It is good,” said Small Elk. “Bring it over here.”

There were those who said that this was the beginning of a new era in the history of the People, when Small Elk made the apology for this hunt. Others said no, it was at the dance ceremony later, and still others recalled the election of the new chief. But all agreed that this occasion, the most successful hunt at the end of the worst season in memory, was an important time. Small Elk faced the buffalo head, while those nearby watched reverently.

Even as the People worked, the smell of roasting hump-ribs began to drift across the area. Several fires were kept burning downwind of the butchering. Someone would pause in his or her task, step to a fire, and cut a piece of meat to chew, even while the work continued.

Necessarily, much of the heavier skinning and rolling of the carcasses was done by the men. Some of the men withdrew and stationed themselves as lookouts as soon as possible. There was every possibility that any Head Splitters in the area would also be aware of the presence of buffalo. This was no time to be attacked, when the winter’s food supply depended on the tasks at hand.

As meat became available, women began the jerking of strips of muscle, to strip them away from the larger joints. These were sliced thinly and draped over willow racks to dry. Children were stationed with leafy branches to shoo away flies and an occasional enterprising bird.

The festoons of drying meat grew as the carcasses shrank to piles of stripped bones, but it was apparent that the hard work of salvaging the meat would go on. Before midday, most of the better-quality animals had been selected, bled, and gutted. Even the pile at the bottom of the cliff had, for the most part, been pulled apart and sorted for quality. A few animals had fallen into inaccessible places, in crevices or among the rocks. Some were in the water, in places too shallow to float but too deep to work in. These were abandoned as unsalvageable, at least for the present. One yearling cow hung grotesquely in the crotch of a tree above the stream. The unnatural posture suggested that it had died in the fall, probably from a broken neck or back.

Some of the People worked on by the light of the fires. Others slept for a little while, to rise and begin again. Out in the darkness, beyond the circle of the firelight, coyotes quarreled over the leavings of some of the butchered carcasses.

“Little Brother wants his share,” a woman joked as she worked.

“Maybe he would come and help us,” her friend suggested, laughing.

“Not likely. He is good at sharing the kills of others.”

“Are not we all in time of hunger?
Aiee
, whose kill
is
this?”

She pointed to the fat cow they were butchering. Both laughed.

“You are right,” the other agreed, turning to call into the darkness. “You are welcome, Little Brother. Take all you need, for we have plenty. We are fortunate this night.”

She paused, and there was a chuckling chorus from the unseen guests in the darkness.

“Their cries sound like laughter,” observed one of the women, who was heavy with child. “It is pleasant to hear. Maybe I will call my child that.”

“What? ‘One-Who-Laughs’?”

“No! ‘The Coyote.’ He is clever and cunning. Already, he runs a lot.”

She pointed ruefully to her swollen belly, and the others laughed.

“
Aiee
, he will be hard to catch when he comes outside!” one suggested.

“No, I think not,” said the expectant mother seriously. “He moves much, but quietly. He would rather not run if he can walk. So, I think he knows much, and saves his strength. Like the coyote.”

“Does he also laugh, like the voices out there?”

The others laughed.

“I have not heard him yet,” admitted the swollen one, “but I think he will!”

The work continued. There was good reason to hurry the preparation of their winter supplies. In only a few days, all the meat not processed would spoil. It was dangerous to eat tainted meat. Only two winters ago, a young hunter of the People had eaten a few bites from a dead elk that he found and had died before Sun Boy’s appearance the next day.