The Changing Wind (41 page)

The sounds of battle were farther away now. Someone pulled the dead Head Splitter’s body away, and Heads Off rolled over and filled his lungs. Weakly he crawled over and sat on the dead horse, still breathing heavily.

The Head Splitters were on the run, leaving their dead behind them. A number of warriors of the People rode in hot pursuit or loosed arrows after the fleeing remnants of the attacking force.

Coyote came over, leading Heads Off’s gray mare. He handed Heads Off a heavy, blood-spattered club.

“Here, Heads Off. You will want to keep this.”

Heads Off looked at the dead chief and shook his head, still unable to speak.

“No matter, I will keep it for you. You may want it later.”

Coyote stood quietly, his presence comforting. A loose horse clopped past, reins trailing, nickering in bewilderment. Women were returning from the timber, looking for loved ones. Here and there a sudden cry, a wail of grief, and the rising notes of the Mourning Song.

The heaviest fighting had been in the meadow, where the horsemen had clashed, and the heaviest casualties were there. The wounded were being assisted by their friends and relatives.

Tall One glided gracefully through the carnage and embraced Heads Off.

“I am proud, my husband.”

“I want to go home,” he gasped. “To lie down.”

They moved in that direction.

Near the first of the lodges, a cluster of people, both men and women, crowded together in a knot. There was a sense of urgency, of extra tragedy, in the keening wails arising from this group. Some simply stood, numbly staring. Attracted by the dread fascination of the unknown, Heads Off motioned, and the three altered their course. They elbowed their way into the crowd toward the motionless figure in the center of the circle. White Buffalo, too, hurried over.

The dead warrior was Hump Ribs. The People of the Southern band were without a leader.

I
n the aftermath of the Great Battle, a feeling a numbness settled over the Southern band, like the heavy pall of a gray cloudbank. There was mourning and the duties attendant upon those who cared for the dead. The People went about their daily tasks of living like sleepwalkers, numb from all the death and destruction. The weather was warm, and very quickly the stench of rotting horseflesh became overbearing. The level meadow along the stream was no longer pleasant, but a place of death. There were still bodies of Head Splitters rotting among those of their elk-dogs. It was time to move.

It would have been time anyway, because the gathering of the People for the Sun Dance and Big Council was imminent. The travel time would be no more than sufficient to reach the appointed place. But, there was no one to say the day, to announce that now or three days from now we will move. There was no leader. Despite this, the need to move quickly became apparent, and the People seemed to move by instinct. The packing, preparation, and striking of the lodges happened. One family began to take down its lodge, and someone else, seeing it, followed suit. A great deal of organization was not needed. The purpose and direction were plain. It remained only to do it, and the People did.

They straggled out of the campsite, still numb, bedraggled, and mourning. Behind them, the trees along the river held burial scaffolds, stark against the sky. They were easily visible, even at last view, amid the budding twigs of new spring growth. Death gives way to new life, thought White Buffalo. He stood a moment, looking back, thinking that the scene looked very much like a heron rookery, with its dozens, sometimes hundreds, of heron lodges. Scaffolds
of sticks, built by the herons to hold new life, as these scaffolds held death. He sighed and turned to follow the procession, wending its way to join the rest of the People. The Southern band was confused. They had won a great victory over the traditional enemy. Yet there was still death and mourning, destroying the taste of that victory.

Coyote waited beside the trail and fell in beside White Buffalo. The two walked in silence for a time, and it was Coyote who finally spoke.

“The People need a leader.”

Yes, thought White Buffalo. A leader. Someone to inspire, to point a direction. Just now, the People were floundering. They were moving toward the Sun Dance because there was nothing else that was solid and lasting. They would seek that celebration because its time and place had already been set. But beyond that, the future was indefinite. There should be a council within the band to select a new chief. None had been called in the numb confusion that had followed the battle. Why? White Buffalo wondered for a moment. Who should have called such a council? The Southern band had enjoyed good leadership for many summers, but now, who?

Mouse Roars had been a leader and teacher, respected and followed by the young men. But Mouse Roars was dead. His son Standing Bird had shown leadership talents but was still too young. Two Pines? No, he still bore the stigma of having changed loyalties when he left the Red Rocks. Sees Far? His skills lay in other directions, as a scout and tracker.

White Buffalo himself could, and probably should, call a council to make the selection. He had been avoiding it, he decided, because he saw no clear candidate for leadership.
Aiee
, nothing was ever simple, even in victory. He studied Coyote as they walked along. Why had the little man brought up the subject? He thought about Coyote’s ways, how Coyote had no desire to lead but managed to manipulate situations without seeming to do so.

“Yes, we should call a council,” White Buffalo said tentatively.

“A good thought,” Coyote answered and walked on in silence.

Ah, the holy man thought, I am right. He
does
have an idea.

“Who will they select?” White Buffalo wondered aloud.

“Who knows?” Coyote shrugged. “Who is a leader?”

“Two Pines is well thought of,” ventured the holy man.

“Yes, that is true. But will the young men follow an outsider?” Coyote asked.

“My thoughts also.
Aiee
, we need someone like Mouse Roars.”

“Or Hump Ribs,” said Coyote. “That is the problem.”

“Coyote, who do the young men follow?”

The little man giggled.

“Heads Off, of course.”

“No, I mean…”

Suddenly, Coyote’s purpose became clear. White Buffalo had been racking his brain to think of a leader but had found none. He had been thinking, however, of the traditional warrior-hunter, the bowman, fighting on foot and teaching others to do so. The interests of the young men did not lie in that direction but in the skills of the elk-dog. They were following the one who could teach
those
skills, those of the elk-dog medicine. The idea of two warrior societies came back again. It was a fact of life now. What was more, the Elk-dog Society was assuming the stronger position.

And that, the holy man now realized at last, was the basis of the present problem. There was no clear leader emerging because he would be expected to come from the old traditional warrior-hunter society, now called the Bowstrings. There was no leader there, because the young men were following the call of the elk-dog and of another leader.

White Buffalo doubted that Heads Off was even aware of the political implications here. There would probably be young men who would choose the more traditional ways, but just now…
aiee
, the chief
must
be an elk-dog leader, and there was none except… It was unthinkable, the thing that kept repeatedly intruding itself into his mind. If Two Pines was unacceptable because of changed loyalty, then how could a complete outsider hope to lead? The answer came back to him: Heads Off leads because of his special medicine, which Two Pines does not have. Which
no one else
has.

White Buffalo stopped in his tracks and stared at Coyote in amazement.

“Heads Off?”

Coyote giggled nervously.

“Why not, Uncle? The young men follow him already. They followed him into battle. He is respected by the elders, even though they do not understand him.”

“But, he… I… Coyote, this is not done.”

“It has not been, Uncle,” said Coyote almost gently, “because until now there has been no elk-dog medicine. But there is change in the wind.”

Yes, change
, thought the holy man. Once again, he wondered if he was ready. But he must. It was not possible to go back.

“Would he do this, Coyote?”

Coyote shrugged.

“Who knows? Let us ask him.”

It was late in the day before they contrived to walk with Heads Off while he led his horse for a little while. White Buffalo, after some small talk, came straight to the point.

“Heads Off, the men want you to become the new chief.”

“What?
Oh, no, Uncle, I could never do that.”

“But the young men follow you already,” Coyote pointed out.

“No! I only teach them. No, Uncle, both of you… I could not do this. I do not know the customs of the People… I…”

“But you have learned much, my son,” White Buffalo reminded him. “You speak the tongue. You have married here, sired a son. No one knows
all
of the customs, and we will help you, Coyote and I. Your wife too.”

The three argued for a long time, Heads Off resisting.

“Could this really be done? You would advise me closely?” he asked finally.

They nodded eagerly.

“How is this done, the choosing of the chief?”

“We call a council.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Aiee!”

“No, wait!” Coyote suggested. “Talk to Tall One. Ask what she thinks.”

Yes, of course
, thought White Buffalo.
An excellent plan!
The girl could present the situation in a proper light.

“Of course! Speak to her,” he urged. “We will talk later.”

When the council of the Southern band was held two days later, there was little discussion and no argument. The journey continued, but now there was a sense of direction, of pride in belonging. The People began to look forward to the Big Council, to the telling and retelling of the story of their victory in the Great Battle. Their entire mood had changed. They had a new leader. He might be a good leader or not—only time would tell. But he was a leader, and the band responded with purpose.

Meanwhile, White Buffalo, Coyote, and the women worked to prepare Heads Off for his appearance at the-Big Council. Tall One and Big-Footed Woman worked tirelessly to create new buckskin garments with embroidered quillwork. Heads Off’s hair was trimmed and replaited.

“He needs something around his neck,” Coyote observed.

“His medicine?” White Buffalo asked.

Without a word, Tall One took down the bit, the marvelous artistry in metal, whose medicine controlled the elk-dog. She hung it on a thong around the neck of the confused Heads Off, where it dangled and bumped gently against the white buckskin of his shirt.

It was worn so a few days later when the Southern band proudly followed Heads Off to his seat in the circle of the Big Council. There was pride in their eyes when he in his turn rose to address the Council.

“I am Heads Off,” he announced in a ringing voice, “chief of the Elk-dog band of the People. My brothers, this has been a very big year for us.”

W
hite Buffalo shifted comfortably, scratching his shoulder against the backrest as he lounged in the sun. Life had been good the past few summers. Fourteen in all, he counted, since Heads Off had become band chief, and much had happened.

The entire tribe had prospered with the expansion of the use of the elk-dog. In these few years, the People had become a major power on the plains. Other tribes, even, sometimes referred to this tribe as the Elk-dog People. There had almost been a split in the tribe as everyone became more affluent through greater ease in hunting. A small, militant splinter group of young elk-dog men who called themselves the Blood Society had withdrawn from the tribe entirely. At least for a time. They had returned to assist in another battle with the Head Splitters and were now welcome again. This had resulted in not two but three Warrior Societies with slightly differing interests and motives but mutual respect.