The Owl Hunt (24 page)

He glanced behind him. The house of the white shaman was not aflame. Everything had gone wrong. Now they would laugh at his vision, the Dreamers would scorn him, the white men would chase him. The cold nipped at the tears on his cheeks.

In the safety of the dark, he paused to let his heart slow. He felt out the union suit, until he mastered the legs and arms and buttons. He stripped swiftly, got into the suit, which was too large, and buttoned it up. Maybe Major Van Horne was contributing to his comfort. That would be good. He put on his own shirt and pants, and then Van Horne's shirt over these, and he felt warm at last. He had layers of white men's clothing to warm him.

He was disgusted with himself. Why had he waited too long in that room? He should not have paused even for a moment. He knew exactly what he would find; he had seen them through the glass. But he had paused, blinked at the lamplight, and that had been his undoing, and now all the Dreamers would heckle him and tell him he was no warrior, no hunter, no chief, no shaman, nothing but a foolish boy who received a false vision he should have ignored, and from the Owl, too, most tricky and treacherous of all creatures on earth and in the sky.

He would go back and do what he must. He would drive the missionaries away forever. He would redden the earth with their blood. He would be Owl, feared by all. But it would do no good now. The white shaman was stronger and quicker than Owl imagined, and now the shaman would be spreading the alarm, getting the soldiers. Owl knew he had failed, and that rubbed his heart raw, and he bounded through the black night scarcely knowing where he would go. He must leave the reservation. He would never see his people again.

He hurried north toward the Wind River, cloaked by night, and no one pursued him. He trotted alone, ignoring his hurt leg, trotted steadily until he reached the river, and trotted along the bank until he came to a gravelly ford. There he stripped, bundled his clothing, and waded across the icy stream, quaking with cold. On the far side he felt safer, though he didn't know where the soldiers were. He dressed and continued north, a plan gradually forming in his head.

At dawn he was in a gulch of the arid Owl Creek Mountains, a gulch that took him straight north, through sagebrush and naked rock and juniper, until he began a serious ascent up tan and red rock, climbing toward the sky. He was hungry but never paused, and somehow his body did not fail him. He was energized by the rising sun, as if its pale warmth was bathing him with new life and heart.

Beyond these mountains was the basin where the white cattlemen had their herds. There would be meat, horses to steal, saddles, maybe a weapon. What more could he ask than a horse and saddle, meat everywhere, and a gun? These things would be available at any camp, where the herders picketed their horses and left their saddles and guns lying about. Then he would have what he needed, the means to ride straight to the worst of them, the one named Yardley Dogwood, and pay him back for all the times he cheated the people, stole their pasture, delivered cattle that were sick and gaunt and had no meat on their bones. Yes, Owl would settle that score, and Owl would show the white man what justice was.

He found a spring and drank and rested briefly. When Father Sun was high in the blue void, Owl started up the last, steepest wall of rock, and by dusk he stood near the topmost ridge of the mountains. The valley ahead was hidden by ridge after ridge, but even so, the trail of justice would take him downslope. He found a spring on the downslope just as dark loomed, watered there, and settled into a red-rock hollow out of the cold wind. It was his first rest since he had fled the agency, and now hunger gnawed at him. It was hard to quiet himself with his body howling for food.

He subdued himself through the night, and somehow felt his spirit floating away from his miserable body, above himself, looking down upon the boy lying on a gravel shelf, his owl heart larger than the whole universe. Much time had passed since he fled the agency.

He greeted first light by rising and lifting his arms to the glow in the east. He scarcely noticed his body; it was as if he was disconnected from it. As the light quickened, he seemed almost to float, to be free of his body. He would continue toward the valley ahead, which lay shadowed beneath the Big Horn Mountains to the east.

There on the wall of this cavity he discovered images painted by the ancient ones. Thousands of images, and most of all, images of the Owl, with big eyes, small horn-ears, a curved beak, and a square body. Owl marveled. Here was the very home of the Owl, celebrated by the ancients. Here were hundreds of images, all with big eyes, all waiting for him. He knew at once that he was destined to come to this place, and destined to receive this vision, destined to rise out of his body and float above it because it was all part of his vision, the vision he had cried for, the vision he had told the Dreamers about. He stood dizzily, scarcely aware of the body that contained life, for now he was melded into the Owl. It was as if the Owl and Owl had merged into a great spirit that he could only feel and not describe.

He sat suddenly and waited, and felt the silence and felt the truth and felt that his life had only just begun.

twenty-eight

Dirk had six students that morning, all boys. These were drawn from the surrounding countryside, and ranged from adolescents to small children. They showed up now and then, all according to whim, or maybe for reasons he didn't fathom.

The erratic attendance made instruction difficult. He could scarcely remember where each child left off, nor had he any idea what had been absorbed and what would have to be taught again. Still, he was delighted to see them file in.

Had Horse Whipper learned some English? Did Biting Bear master some arithmetic? And where was Yan Maow, Big Nose, in learning the alphabet? Dirk kept careful attendance records, but they did little good. So this morning, he resorted to telling stories in the Shoshone tongue, but stories about the white world and the people in it. He didn't know if it amounted to a schooling, but it might prepare these boys for the changes in their lives that would be forced on them.

It seemed a strange morning. There were armed soldiers scattered around the agency, most of them wearing sidearms. The sight of all those blue-shirts disturbed the boys. They stared out the schoolhouse windows, and didn't listen as Dirk told them about how he had been schooled in a great city of the white men called St. Louis. He sprinkled English words liberally through his teaching, knowing that at least the boys would gradually become English speakers, which is what the government wanted. Still, until there could be regular classes and a boardinghouse for the students, not much would be achieved.

He stared at Otter Beard, and his friend Tindooh, and then at the earnest lad Tissidimit, and wondered what good he was doing. Was he helping them or leading them to perdition?

Halfway through the bright fall morning, he had a visitor, Pan-sook-a-motse, who was Major Van Horne's factotum.

The graying man smiled, and motioned. “Chief, he want see you quick quick.”

“I'll be along, thank you.”

The Shoshone left, closing the door carefully against the sharp breezes.

“I'm going to give you a recess. I'll be back after I talk to the agent,” he said.

The boys would head for the schoolyard and play one of their games with a ball or some sticks, or just sit in the pale sun and take the air.

Dirk threw on his woolen coat and headed for the whitewashed agency, once again aware that there were a dozen soldiers lounging here and there, to no apparent purpose.

He passed two soldiers at the door of the agency, and found the Indian agent and several other people, including Thaddeus Partridge and Lieutenant Keefer, the newest shavetail at the post.

The agent turned at once to Dirk. “Well, what have you to say?”

“About what?”

“The murderous assault.”

Dirk realized he was missing something important. “I don't know what this is about.”

“I'll tell you what!” the reverend said. “Waiting Wolf is what. He walked straight in while Mrs. Partridge and I were studying, and tried to brain us, is what!”

“Brain you?”

“With a candelabra from the altar. Sacrilege on top of murder!”

Van Horne continued the story: “It's a good thing that the reverend was alert and in fine shape. He leaped out of his chair straight into the boy, so the blow came over his head and caught his back.”

“Yes, and I tumbled him, and Mrs. Partridge tipped the lamp, and we had a fire and she smothered it with a rug whilst I chased that wretch out of the house. He got away, the miserable cur.”

“And made off with my long johns and a shirt,” Van Horne added.

“Waiting Wolf? Owl?”

“I don't care what his name is. He can change it ten times if he wants and he'll still hang. And all the Dreamers are going to hang, too.”

Dirk absorbed all that slowly. “Was he alone?”

“Alone, skulking about here, knowing that Captain Cinnabar's in the field, hunting down rustlers and Dreamers.”

“A perfect moment to strike!” Partridge said. “But I know my history, Dirk. The Whitmans up in Oregon. Marcus Whitman, Narcissa Whitman, slaughtered by treacherous redskins they'd brought into the fold. Doctor Whitman, who'd given over his life to helping those savages. Oh, I knew my history and didn't think twice. It was save Amy or perish.”

“I somehow missed it,” Dirk said.

“How could you miss it? The place was in an uproar.”

“I did see the soldiers this morning.”

“You must be a deep sleeper, or else you think you're not vulnerable,” Van Horne said.

There was something in the observation that Dirk didn't like, but he let it pass.

“Why me? Why Amy and me and Bobby?” Partridge asked. “Why not a soldier, or the agent, or the schoolteacher, or one of the civilians at the post? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a priest, and everything I say and believe and preach is a threat to the savages. They know it. That boy knows it. He started up the Dreamers, with a vision of getting rid of us. And it's clear that he's after the church. Drive the missionaries out, and the rest will collapse. And it's true. Belief marches ahead of all else.”

“Well, Thaddeus, I think you're putting a little too much emphasis on religion,” the lieutenant said. “The army's here and it's going to stay here, and it's going to affect the lives of the savages.”

“Owl attacked the church,” Partridge said. “He attacked God. He knows. He's bright. He knows that it's us against the heathen. It's our beliefs against their superstitions. So he struck where it counted. That's why I'll need protection, Lieutenant. He's decided who's his enemy, and while I wish it weren't so, that is how he's thinking. I ache to lead him toward the light, but he's committed to preserving the Shoshone animism and hoodoo. Owl, dreaded creature of those people, owns his heart, and as long as the boy's thinking that way, my family and I need protection.”

“See to it, Lieutenant,” Van Horne said.

“Yes, of course. We'll post a guard every night, or you can stay at Fort Washakie each night,” Keefer said.

“I'd like a guard, sir.”

“Where's the boy?” Dirk asked.

“No one knows. Gone. We've sent a dispatch to the captain to hunt him down, but this is a big country, and the boy has friends,” the agent said.

Dirk supposed that Owl probably was close at hand, which was how he had fed himself. Owl lingered near the shattered pine above the agency, and confederates supplied his needs. But Dirk didn't feel like saying it. For some reason, he still liked Owl, or at least felt some connection with him, and wished that the youth would simply vanish, maybe head west to the farthest Shoshone bands, close to California. He'd be safe there.

“Well, Skye, you know the boy better than anyone else. Where do you think he'd be?” the lieutenant asked.

“I don't know.”

“How far did he get with his schooling?” Van Horne asked.

Dirk didn't mince words. “He was the brightest one I've taught. He blotted up everything, asked questions, challenged me, and had an amazing curiosity about the world of white people. I'd say, even at age fifteen, he knows more about Europeans and white civilization than any other Shoshone, including the chief.”

“Well, I didn't mean that. Could he do arithmetic? Could he read and write? Does he know English?”

“All of those things.”

“Then he knows we'll hang him.”

“For what?”

“Rebellion, mutiny, attempted murder.”

“He hasn't killed anyone and he's only trying to preserve his nation,” Dirk replied.

They stared at him, and he knew the stare all too well.

“He's a boy of fifteen,” Dirk added.

“What did you teach him, Skye?” the lieutenant asked.

There it was again, a little more open this time. “I taught him that the Shoshones are a fine people, a nation led by a fine chief.”

“Well, yes, but didn't you tell them that they needed to abandon their old ways?”

“Yes, I told them that there won't be more buffalo, and the old ways won't work.”

“Well, Dirk, you didn't get it across to Owl,” Van Horne said.

“I'm here to gather intelligence, Skye. You know the boy better than anyone else. What's he going to do next?” the lieutenant asked.

“I haven't any idea, sir.”

“Those Dreamers, dreaming of driving us out. Is he going to summon them? Has the time come that they're dreaming about? Is that why he tried to murder the Partridges?”

“His dream, as I understand it, is that the whites will leave peacefully. That's what the Dreamers are waiting for. The army will go; the agency will shut down. The private citizens will pack up.”

“Why?”

“Because their God failed them. Because they will lose heart and go away.”