by Win Blevins
Sam knew a bad horse, one who stumbled in the middle of a rampaging herd, or got gored, could kill his rider, and maybe get riders behind him killed.
Sam reached up and rubbed the mare’s black hat and ears—she always liked that. He looked down at Coy and said, “Good pup, good pup.” The little coyote now had sense enough to stay out from under the horses’ hooves.
Bell Rock and his wife rode up beside Sam. The medicine man just nodded at him. No words were necessary. Both knew what Sam was taking on was dangerous. And both knew there was no way Sam wouldn’t ride her on this hunt.
Blue Medicine Horse and Flat Dog slipped their mounts in next to him. Sam understood that their smiles were meant to be encouraging, and he appreciated that.
Stripe edged up and gave Sam an ironic smile.
Sam had a strong sense of foreboding. A message thumped in his chest like his heartbeat: This is not a day for good things to happen.
Gideon, Beckwourth, and Third Wing eased their horses in behind Sam. “Good day to hunt,” Gideon said.
Sam resisted shaking his head no. Maybe a bad day for a lot of things, but he didn’t care. No telling when another chance to run buffalo would come. Maybe next week, or maybe not until summer, when he got back from the spring trapping season. He couldn’t take a chance on being No Arrows that long. He was about to lose Meadowlark even now. So today he was going to run buffalo, shoot a buffalo, and do what was required to get a new name. If a medicine man told the people he had earned a new name, the Crows would honor it.
He did not let himself know how much he yearned for honor.
A COUPLE OF miles away from the herd, the scouts rode up and gave their report. Where the herd was grazing, the river wound along the northeast side of the valley. The buffalo were on the southwest side of the stream, above a high, steep bank. It was a small herd, maybe fifty head.
“Is the bank high enough to run them off of?” said Red Roan.
Three of the four scouts thought so. The fourth agreed, but didn’t think the fall was enough to kill all the buffalo. “Some will be killed, some hurt, all of them confused,” he said.
“That’s what we’ll do,” said Red Roan.
Sam felt a pang. If they herded the buffalo off the cliff, he wouldn’t get to run the mare among them today. Or maybe he was relieved.
Red Roan and the scouts drew with sticks in the dirt and came up with a plan. The wind was directly up the canyon, from southeast to northwest. So when anyone flanked the buffalo on the downstream side, they would break the other way.
The hunters had divided themselves into three warrior clubs. Red Roan called out the plan. The four scouts and the Muddy Hands would ride along the river on the southeast side, out of sight in the cottonwoods. They would go a couple of miles beyond the buffalo, spread out on a long flank, and ride hard to the herd. Red Roan made sure Jackrabbit, the Muddy Hand leader, understood what to do.
The Kit Foxes, Red Roan said, would go into the aspens on the southwest side and stay well hidden. Today, since Blue Medicine Horse and Flat Dog were Kit Foxes, the white men were invited to ride with these hunters. The chief’s son himself would lead the Foxes, and he almost glared at Sam when he repeated, “Well hidden.” When the buffalo smelled or heard the hard-riding hunters from the south, the Foxes would cut off any who broke toward the west and turn them toward the river. Otherwise they would move all the buffalo lickety-split toward the river. “We’ll run them hard, straight at the drop-off,” he said.
The Knobby Sticks, about a dozen hunters led by Bull-All-the-Time, would remain on the upstream side and push the animals toward the river from that direction.
The Foxes and Knobby Sticks would wait for the Muddy Hands to make the buffalo break. Then all hell would break loose.
SAM HAD TO hold the medicine hat firm. She felt the tension mounting—everybody did—she was ready to run. That was good, he hoped.
The fog had gone up to Sun. The day was crystalline, under a sky that was deeper and higher than any Sam had ever seen in Pennsylvania. Today, he told himself, I’m going to earn a new name.
Or get bad hurt. The memory of the leg broken by a ball at the Arikara villages was still painful. Being flat on his back, then on crutches, then hobbling, weeks of being a cripple…
Pictures flitted through his mind—him and the mare flying off the cliff, black shadows leaping into blackness. He tried to ignore the clutter. The mare turning in the air and landing on her back, Sam being speared by the saddle horn underneath her. He could already feel his chest being crushed.
The buffalo were still grazing placidly. The Muddy Hands needed a lot of time, evidently. Jackrabbit would take no chances….
An old bull, one of the biggest, raised his head. He held his muzzle into the wind. As suddenly as a leaf drops off a branch, he galloped upstream.
“Hi-yi-yi-yay! Hi-yi-yi-yay!” The Knobby Sticks charged the herd from Sam’s left.
Suddenly the horses around Sam ran like hell. He jumped the mare to a gallop to catch up. Excited, he slapped her rump with hand. Now the cry was all around him—“Hi-yi-yi-yay! Hi-yi-yi-yay!”
He was dodging aspen trees at incredible speed. The mare was doing the job herself, without guidance, gliding left, veering right, occasionally jumping a downed tree. All that was a damn good sign for running buffalo.
When they burst out of the grove, the closest buffalo were no more than twenty yards away. “Hi-yi-yi-yay!” everyone yelled, or something like that. Red Roan galloped in front, hollering the loudest.
When the big bull broke, all the buffalo did. They ran in all directions at once, like balls scattering on a billiards table. One bull ran straight at Red Roan. Then the monster turned and headed downstream, but had to veer off to avoid the Muddy Hands. “Hi-yi-yi-yay!” It was a war cry and a declaration of triumph to come.
Sam yelled “Hi-yi-yi-yay!” right in the mare’s ears, and suddenly she put on an extra burst of speed and took him to the front. Sam hadn’t imagined a horse could run this fast. “Hi-yi-yi-yay!” he cried.
Faster, harder, faster, harder!
Riders closed in from the right and the left. The buffalo dashed first in one direction, then another. They milled. They bleated. At last they set their muzzles on the only direction open to them, straight toward the river. Faster, thought Sam, faster. Run them so hard they go right off that cliff! Faster!
A great noise, like a thousand people stomping their feet on a wooden floor. Rumps and shaggy heads rose and fell in rhythm. Horses screamed, buffalo bellowed. Mud clods the size of huge fists flew. A giant one hit the medicine hat in the muzzle—she trumpeted a complaint. Sam kicked her flanks and she ran faster.
Dung squirted out of buffalo bottoms and flicked backward from hooves. A green gob hit Sam in the corner of his right eye. The sting made him shout in pain. He wiped at it with a sleeve and urged the mare to go faster.
He was giddy with the chase.
Screams—incredible guttural screams!
Buffalo were pitching off the cliffs!
Others, he could see, tumbled into a ravine on the right that opened onto the river. Muddy Hands from downstream reined in at the rim and shot arrows into the gully.
All the damn buffalo don’t need to go off the cliff, Sam told himself. I can shoot one on the run.
He dropped the reins—the mare did better without them—and knee-nudged her toward a cow to his left. They couldn’t catch the cow. Sam kicked the mare, and she went faster, but not close enough for a shot.
Sam reminded himself, It needs to be in the brisket just behind the right shoulder. He bellowed at the top of his lungs.
Somehow the mare drew almost even with the cow.
Sam sighted as sharp as you can sight bouncing up and down on a galloping horse. He saw the brisket in The Celt’s sights.
The cow went over the cliff.
The medicine hat wheeled right, screamed out a whinny, and fell over the cliff sideways.
In midair Sam got
his left leg out from under the mare and kicked away.
Whummpf!
Slanted ground cracked his back. He rolled head over heels into a melee. The mare clipped his right ear with a hoof, and his mind spun like a dust devil. Another kick smashed his left hand. Screams—horse screams, human screams, buffalo screams, his own screams—tore his brain.
He got up on one knee. A buffalo bull charged straight at him, horns lowered.
The mare ran at the bull and collided with it hard, shoulder to shoulder.
She went down hard. The bull veered off, shook itself, and slowly turned to face Sam again.
The mare clambered to her feet.
The bull charged.
The mare reared and flashed her hooves in his eyes.
The bull stopped. It glared. Just as it was making up its mind to gore the medicine hat, the air glimmered, and an arrow quivered in its brisket. A second arrow passed straight through the chest and vibrated in the cold ground beyond.
Sam touched his right ear, and his hand came away thick with blood.
The bull stood, fierce, aroused. Its rump lowered for a charge.
Two more arrows whumped into the brisket.
The bull huffed air out, like blowing pain away.
Sam looked up and saw Bell Rock, Blue Horse, and Flat Dog drawing back the bowstrings hard.
He felt the blood split into two streams on the divide of his shoulder and curl down his chest and his back.
Blasts of gunpowder hammered his ears. Gideon and Beckwourth were doing their part on the bull, too.
The mare ran at the bull and bit him on the snout.
The buffalo stood still, like nothing had happened, or he had turned into a tree stump.
Sam scrambled up the steep dirt cliff as high as he could get. He started reloading The Celt, but his left hand would barely hold the rifle. He managed to shake powder into the muzzle—too much powder, he knew, but he had to do something.
A young bull ran at the medicine hat, horns lowered. She skittered away easily, but tripped on a fallen cow. The mare flipped over the cow and sprawled headlong. Sam’s heart leapt out of his chest. The young bull stood over the cow like he’d lost interest. The mare scrambled back to her feet.
Sam rammed a ball down the muzzle, eyes fixed on the bull, which was still glaring at him.
The old bull buckled to one knee.
Sam lifted The Celt and held the bull’s head in his sights. Then he remembered what Gideon said. ‘You can’t kill one straight on in the head. The skull bone is too thick.’
The bull struggled back to four feet and planted them wide. His eyes rolled in horror. Blood gouted out of his mouth and nose.
Sam gushed his breath out. He knew that story—bull on the ground, from all the shots.
He shook his head—he was a little light-headed. He looked around. Everywhere buffalo were dying or struggling to live. They staggered around on three legs. They bleated, each cry as loud as ten stuck pigs. Yearlings ran around lost. One cow waded deeper and deeper into the river, as though looking for a place to drown. Arrows whistled down from the clifftop.
Sam knew he had to stay clear of those arrows. He looked up. Bell Rock Flat Dog, and Blue Medicine Horse, almost shoulder to shoulder, were still whanging arrows into buffalo flesh.
Twenty yards from Sam a cow stood still in the midst of the tumult, solid on three legs, the near foreleg raised neatly, like a little finger stuck out from a cup of coffee. Sam figured the leg was broken.
He leveled The Celt right at the spot behind the shoulder. Ignoring the bolt of pain in his left hand, and pretending not to notice the rivulets of blood on his chest and back, he let fly.
The blast knocked Sam down.
The cow toppled like she’d been clobbered by a steamboat.
I got my cow.
Bell Rock grinnned down at Sam.
His head swimming a little, Sam looked around for the medicine hat. To his surprise she was on the cliff slope, half a dozen steps away. He edged over and took the reins. Evidently, once her personal enemy was down, she withdrew from the fight.
Carefully, Sam picked his way along the loose dirt of the slope toward the ravine.
The sides of the ravine were too steep to walk on, but the hunters were finished here. Half a dozen buffalo lay dead. Sam weaved his way up the middle of the gully, a drunk leading a horse. Soon the ravine sauntered up to level ground.
He half-stumbled out onto the plain, dizzy with whatever had happened. He collapsed onto the earth. Oh, things happened.
Chapter Eleven
HE WOKE TO a tongue slobbering on his face.
Coy. I forgot Coy. The whole time. Where was Coy?
He tried to jerk his head away, but something held it in a vice.
This realization was knocked to smithereens by a stabbing pain in his ear.
“O-o-o-w!”
“You t’ink to bleed to death, ami?” said a calm voice.
Another stab. “O-o-o-w!”
“Easy. Half done.”
Sam opened his eyes. Coy licked his mouth, but when he tried to move, the grip tightened.
Gideon bent close over his face. Against the sky, Beckwourth, Blue Horse, and Flat Dog. On their knees next to him, Bell Rock and Third Wing. If he believed the looks on their faces, he was in trouble. The beaver men didn’t speak Crow and the Crows didn’t speak English, but they didn’t need to.
The medicine hat stomped her feet and flabbered her lips, like asking for attention.
“That mare done saved your ass,” said Beckwourth.
“She was your paladin,” said Gideon, with the French pronunciation.
“O-o-o-w!”
Third Wing was holding Sam’s head hard.
“Remember Diah, when ze bear got him? Ze ear?”
Diah meant Jedediah Smith, the Bible-reading brigade leader, and that was one of the big days of Sam’s life. The griz rushed out of the bushes, knocked Diah down, and got his head in its mouth. After everyone shot at the bear, they checked Diah’s head. His scalp was cut to quilt pieces, and his ear was about to fall off. James Clyman sewed it back onto his head, more or less. That ear was nothing Diah would want anyone to see, ever again.
That was all before Sam got Coy, who now sat a step away and whimpered.
“Your ear is not so bad. I am your Clyman. I, how you say…”
“Stitch,” said Beckwourth.
Sam saw now that Bell Rock was carefully studying what Gideon’s hands did. Next the medicine man would want to trade for needle and thread.
“O-o-o-w!”
“Be still,” snapped Gideon.
Sam wondered if he cared whether he messed up Gideon’s sewing job or not.
“You about lost too much blood,” said Third Wing.
“We won’t say ‘Hold on to your hair’ to Sam,” drawled Beckwourth, “we’ll say, ‘Hold on to your ear.’”
“Very funny. O-o-o-w!”
Gideon gave a big, exasperated sigh. Beckwourth knelt beside Third Wing and helped him clamp Sam’s head. “Do it.”
Sam hollered “O-o-o-w!” about half a dozen more times, and it was over.
“Let us see you stand up,” said Gideon.
Sam rolled over, raised onto all fours, tented his bottom up, and slowly stood…until he buckled to one knee.
The knee got Coy’s paw. The pup yelped and skittered away.
“I don’t know if he is good in ze head.”
“Nothing important there,” said Beckwourth.
Sam gave a lopsided smile and stood up. He rocked like a sailor on a pitching deck, and then steadied. Coy rubbed against his leg.
“We get the buffalo?”
“We’re finished butchering them out,” said Beckwourth.
Blue Horse spoke in Crow. “We’re going to pack some meat back to camp now. We’ll walk and lead the horses. Some of us will stay here tonight, until we come for the rest.”
“But you will ride back,” said Bell Rock, just lik
e a doctor.
“Tied on,” said Third Wing, like a mother.
“I got a cow,” said Sam. He looked woozily from one face to another. “I got a cow.”
“Are you giving the cow to an old couple?” asked Bell Rock.
Sam nodded. “Whoever you choose.”
“Pack the meat on a travois. Lead the pack horse to their lodge. Drop the travois on the ground.”
“We’ll pack the cow back for you,” said Third Wing.
Sam nodded that he understood all. Coy looked at everyone brightly, like he understood too.
“You earned a new name,” said Bell Rock.
“What name?” blurted Sam. He would have shown better manners, except that his head wasn’t right.
Bell Rock smiled and shrugged. “You’ll find out.”
“Next time,” said Beckwourth, “don’t near get killed for a name.”
Sam squatted—going down felt risky—and petted Coy. “What about the mare?” said Sam. “Can she get a name too?”
Bell Rock gave Sam a look, like “Medicine men don’t name horses.” Blue Horse had a similar look. All right, I know, Crows don’t name horses.
“So I’ll name her. Hey, white people do.” He ruffled Coy’s head fur and thought. “What’s a good name?”
“Bull-killer,” said Beckwourth.
Sam shook his head and found out it hurt to shake it.
“Paladin,” said Gideon. “How you say in English? Paladin? Is ugly that way.”
“What’s it mean?” asked Sam.
“Knight, a champion for his leader.”
Sam nodded his head slowly, so the ear wouldn’t hurt. Paladin sounded pretty good.
“Protector,” said Third Wing.
“Guardian,” said Beckwourth.
“Savior,” said Third Wing.
“Save your what?” asked Beckwourth. Third Wing had gotten a little Christianity during his trading post years, and Beckwourth always mocked it.
“Our Lord and Savior,” replied Third Wing with dignity.
“More like ‘Save Your Ass,’” said Beckwourth.
Sam gave them all a wide, nutty grin. “Save Your is not bad.”
Bell Rock butted in. “I name her.”
