by Judd Cole
Continuing the lesson, Black Elk told of a more ancient way to hunt buffalo that did not require weapons. It was employed when hunters were unarmed, without horses, or could not use their rifles because there was no high ground for cover. Although buffalo could not see well, a gunshot would cause them to stampede. If the hunters were on low ground, they stood a good chance of being trampled to death. The solution, Black Elk explained, was to decoy a few buffalo away from the main herd and to run them off a buffalo jump— a blind cliff over which they fell to their death.
One sleep after Black Elk shot the buffalo cow, the Cheyenne youths discovered a perfect cliff only a few hundred yards from the buffalo run, and Black Elk decided to teach his band the ancient decoy tricks used to separate a few animals from the main herd. First it was necessary to find a herd at rest, grazing. Black Elk showed them how to listen for the telltale squawking of buffalo birds that followed the herds and lived off ticks in the buffalo’s hide.
Soon they heard the birds on the far side of a long ridge. Making sure to keep his band downwind of the buffalo, because of the beasts’ keen sense of smell, Black Elk led his band to the top of the ridge. Below, in a grassy bottom, a vast herd grazed.
Since they could do nothing until a few animals straggled away from the main herd, they tethered their ponies to graze. Then Black Elk spaced the youths out at careful intervals between the ridge and the blind cliff, placing them at strategic points where the buffalo might veer off and escape. Black Elk sternly warned them to watch for shifts in the wind direction that might give their smell away. Matthew was given the very last spot, a small hill just before the steep drop-off. His job was to run down the hill as the buffalo approached, waving a tree branch to make them veer toward the cliff.
The youth was both excited and determined to perform well. He was still elated from his victory over Wolf Who Hunts Smiling with the hot stones. If he did well in the hunt, the others might change their attitudes toward him.
From his elevated position, Matthew could see everything as it developed. After what seemed like hours, a few buffalo drifted away from the main herd. Black Elk then leaped out from hiding and, shouting and waving his arms, chased the beasts off from the herd.
Matthew watched, his heart pounding with excitement. At a draw where the small herd might have broken across the plains to freedom, Little Horse diverted them back toward the cliff. One by one, Swift Canoe, True Son, and Wolf Who Hunts Smiling leaped from hiding and kept the herd pointed in Matthew’s direction.
Dust swirled in high plumes as the animals lumbered closer to him. Concentrating on timing his leap, Matthew was not aware that the wind abruptly shifted directions. He was about to fly down the hill when the buffalo smelled his presence in time to reverse course in a panic. They avoided the cliff and scattered out across the plains.
Stunned, Matthew could only stare, wondering what had gone wrong. Then, he felt the wind pressure on his sweating back and realized his mistake. To make matters worse, the others had all witnessed how his carelessness ruined their hours of patient waiting. As the rest of the band retrieved their horses and rode toward him, Matthew could see the rage in their faces. Even Little Horse gave him an angry stare.
“Woman Face, mighty slayer of ponies!” Black Elk said. His rage-twisted face and the ear sewn with buckskin thread made him look fierce in his wrath. “Did the white men make you such a mighty hunter?”
When Matthew’s face flushed hot with shame, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling said, “Look at the woman! She wears her heart in her face!”
Matthew had held his tongue at Black Elk’s insults. But since the incident with the hot stones, he had determined to stand up to Wolf Who Hunts Smiling.
“Wolf Who Hunts Smiling barks loud, but lies in his heart like a fox. Everyone saw how he cheated and lied with the stones!”
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s rage was instant. In a moment, he was off his pony, his knife at the ready. Matthew had learned his fighting style from watching the drunken miners in Bighorn Falls; and he made the mistake of squaring off to box white-man style.
His eyes mocking Matthew, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling casually picked up a rock and threw it at him, hitting his enemy hard in the forehead.
Pain exploded inside Matthew’s skull. The day suddenly went blurry, and his legs seemed to lose their bones. The next thing he knew, the ground rushed up to meet him, and he lay there dazed.
Snarling in triumph, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling straddled him and knelt, raising his knife to plunge it.
“No!” Little Horse shouted. He jumped on Wolf Who Hunts Smiling from behind and held on for dear life. But Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was stronger and soon had the smaller boy pinned under him, his knife at the boy’s throat.
Black Elk interceded, stopping his cousin’s hand from slicing open Little Horse’s throat. During their struggles, the blade had opened up a nasty gash on Little Horse’s chest.
“He begs for the life of this woman!” protested Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “He begs for the white man’s dog who ruined our hunt!”
Before Black Elk could reply, a hidden rifle spoke its piece, and True Son’s white mustang dropped dead where it stood.
Chapter Twelve
Black Elk, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, True Son, and Swift Canoe scattered like scalded dogs, scrambling behind hummocks and isolated cottonwoods. With the aid of Little Horse, Matthew made it to cover, even though he was still stunned from his injury. The shot had come from high up in the rim rock behind them. The youths craned their necks and squinted up into the bright sunlight, expecting a hail of lead.
Instead, they saw two Pawnee braves, stripped to their breechclouts, standing atop a huge pile of rock debris at the bottom of a sheer cliff. Sunlight glinted off a whiskey bottle as one passed it to the other. They were taking turns firing their rifles, apparently just to make noise. They acted as if they had not spotted the Cheyenne even though they had just shot True Son’s horse.
Another shot split the silence, and a bullet flew past the Cheyenne with a sound like an angry hornet. Only then did they realize that a ricochet had dropped the pony. Soon the two Pawnee mounted their spotted horses and headed up into the high country, disappearing behind another pile of debris.
Black Elk gathered his band for a hurried council, the near-fatal confrontation between Matthew, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, and Little Horse long forgotten. Black Elk’s face showed fierce determination to gain revenge against their hereditary enemy.
It was important, Black Elk explained, to track the Pawnee back to their trail camp. Their strength and numbers would have to be learned and reported to the headmen back at Yellow Bear’s camp. Despite the bloodlust gleaming in his dark eyes, Black Elk was a true Cheyenne warrior. The idea of striking without painting and dressing for battle and making an offering to the Medicine Arrows frightened him. He did not fear death, but the prospect of dying without strong medicine. For the warrior who did so had to wander forever by himself in the Forest of Tears. To be kept out of the Land of Ghosts was worse than being banished from an earthly tribe. True death for an Indian was to be alone forever. Still, they had to locate the camp of the Pawnee raiders.
“We are not white-livered cowards. We are Cheyenne!” Black Elk told his band.
He stared at Matthew, perhaps recalling how his enemy had recently stood up to Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. “It is not enough to talk the he-bear talk. A warrior’s skill is in the doing, not the talking.”
Since True Son’s pony had been killed, Black Elk ordered him to share mounts with the other four youths until they could replace his pony. Then, single file and well apart, the youths followed Black Elk toward the point where they had seen the two Pawnee up in the rim rock.
From a distance, Matthew could detect no possible way of scaling the sheer rock face on horseback. But when the band drew nearer, they discovered a narrow, hidden trail. It wound and twisted way up the rim rock in a series of steep switchbacks. As they climbed higher and higher, Matthew felt cool s
weat break out in his armpits. At any moment, he expected a rifle ball to shatter his skull.
No one talked so as to remain constantly vigilant and aware of his surroundings. They listened carefully to every noise, studied every movement, even occasionally paused so Black Elk could sniff the air. It was said he could actually smell Pawnee warrior, when the wind was right.
Matthew marveled at Black Elk’s ability to read signs. There were no obvious clues, such as fresh horse droppings, to tell how recent each set of tracks was. But Black Elk could tell how old each print was by judging how far the mud had settled in any track. Twice he motioned to the others to stop while he climbed up high in the sloping debris to get a better view before riding on.
No skill was required to spot the many empty whiskey bottles littering the trail. Matthew hoped it was careless drunkenness that gave the Pawnee away, not a clever plan to lure the Cheyenne to their deaths.
After the trail finally leveled off and wound through a narrow defile, the band traversed another series of cliffs crowded with limestone outcroppings. Soon they were climbing again. The trail narrowed until it wasn’t even safe for surefooted mules.
When they were so high up that wind-twisted trees grew from cracks in the rocks, they encountered an old antelope buck that blocked their trail. It failed to run away as they approached. Instead, the animal constantly stared at something on the ground as it circled around and around.
“Snake,” said Black Elk without bothering to investigate.
The band detoured carefully around the reptile swinging wide so their ponies wouldn’t nicker and give them away. But, for all their precautions, Matthew knew they might well be already in the sights of Pawnee lookouts.
The sun sank low as they progressed. When it was out of sight behind the rock-tipped cones of the Bighorns, the young Cheyenne discovered a clearing where a good-sized camp had been made. But there was no danger, Black Elk concluded after a quick examination. He pointed out several fresh animal tracks that wouldn’t be present in such numbers if men had been there recently.
As the band journeyed onward, they arrived at a point where the crude trail jutted out close to the edge of the rock face again. There, Matthew could see everything that lay below, and for the first time in his life, he realized how truly beautiful and majestic the land was. The Tongue River Valley wound like a green ribbon across the broad dull-brown expanse of the endless plains. Captivated, Matthew began to feel as if he could soar out over the land like the hawks and eagles. But at the same time, he also felt his own insignificance. In the grand scheme of the universe, he meant no more than a bug inching its way up a cliff until it was crushed beneath another animal’s foot.
In the first grainy twilight of early evening, Black Elk suddenly lifted one hand to halt the youths. Without a word he pointed dead ahead toward a huge circle of scrub oaks where the trail appeared to end. Using hand signals, he had the band back up about fifty yards down the trail. The others followed him as he left the trail and found a small but lush patch of grama grass. There, they hobbled their tired ponies with strips of rawhide and let them graze.
Again warning his charges to remain completely silent, Black Elk led them on foot back to the copse of oaks. They slipped in amongst the trees and peered out toward a grassy clearing on the other side. The high-altitude camp was in a perfect defensive position. Any attack from the south was impossible without scaling the other side of the mountain. The east and west approaches were equally inaccessible because of cliffs and jagged heaps of rock debris. Any attack would have to be mounted up the narrow trail on the northern slope.
At least twenty Pawnee braves milled about the grassy clearing. Behind them stood wickiups that consisted of tree-branch frames covered with grass and brush. That style of construction was common among the tribes of the Southwest like the Southern Pawnee who had raided Yellow Bear’s camp. But what convinced Black Elk and the others that they had found the camp of their enemies was the dozen or so ponies in a temporary rope corral. Without doubt, they were the buckskins and duns and white mustangs stolen from the Cheyenne.
Although it was nearly dark, Matthew could see the Pawnee’s greased top-knots shine when they passed close to the firelight. In the center of camp, the Pawnee had dug several holes, thrown a deer’s head in each, and raked coals over them. After cooking the deer heads, they devoured the tongues, eyes, and roasted brains and washed the victuals down with the white man’s devil water, which made several of them act crazy drunk.
One of the Pawnee was older and fiercer looking than the others. He was a scarred but vigorous warrior in his middle years. Unlike the others, who wore only breechclouts and moccasins, he also wore an elaborate cape made of scalps. The Cheyenne hiding in the trees knew the scalps with the freshest blood were those of their Powder River kinsmen.
The word-bringer had mentioned that War Thunder wore such a cape of human trophies to unnerve his enemies in battle. With a cool shudder of fear and hatred, Matthew recalled the carnage visited upon his people and Honey Eater’s heartrending grief for her dead mother and the others. He would gladly take the scalp of the man who had caused such devastation.
Black Elk too had spied the renegade leader and realized his luck. Before them was the band of Pawnee warriors who had spilled great amounts of Cheyenne blood. Surely, the warrior who exacted revenge for the tribe would be honored all of his days. And since their enemies were crazy from paleface strong water, Black Elk and his band could not fail in their attempt to strike back. At the same time, he would also teach his young bucks the most important lesson in Cheyenne warfare.
Moving silently, he touched all of them and signaled them to follow him. They dropped back to a small moonlit clearing where Black Elk could speak in low tones. Behind them, the Pawnee camp grew louder as whiskey flowed freely.
“Young brothers, hear me well!”
The words secretly impressed Matthew. It was a rare mark of respect for a blooded warrior to address his subordinates as brothers. And for the first time, Matthew had felt included in such an important council.
“You know that treading the warpath at night can anger the Great Spirit and turn a Cheyenne wendigo—make him crazy for life. And day or night, Cheyenne never attack without painting and dressing and praying to the Medicine Arrows.
“But young brothers, there is something even braver than the kill, something even better than the kill. There is something which says to your enemy, ‘I have mastered you, I have humiliated you, and only when I choose will I also kill you!’’
Black Elk explained that the highest honor in battle was to count coup on an enemy, which could be done in several ways. A warrior could strike his enemy a symbolic blow with quirt, bow, or knife before being attacked; a warrior could strip his enemy of all his weapons or steal his horse. But the gravest, most devastating insult of all was to steal an enemy’s medicine bag while he slept, thus destroying his magic protection forever.
After a warrior had successfully counted coup, he achieved the right to wear an eagle feather in his hair. Every time he counted coup thereafter, he received another feather. But it was a disgrace to fail at counting coup. Many warriors preferred to die, Black Elk informed the youths solemnly.
For such a failure was the warrior’s mark of shame.
That night, he added, would be their first true test as warriors. He, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling, Little Horse, Swift Canoe, and Matthew would wait until the camp was asleep. Then each was to slip in and steal a brave’s medicine bag or weapons. True Son, in the meantime, would count coup by stealing a pony to replace his dead one. Black Elk cautioned them twice against killing that night, his eyes finding Wolf Who Hunt’s Smiling’s in the moonlight. That would come in good time.
Matthew’s pulse thudded loudly in his ears as they resumed their former positions at the edge of camp. A faint, rhythmic sound to his right made him strain to see in the dim ruby glow of the camp fires. Then he realized that Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was honing his kni
fe on the fine-grained stone he always carried in his legging sash. After Black Elk’s strict order to avoid killing, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling’s actions troubled Matthew and reminded him that he had no weapons for his own defense.
Despite their increasing drunkenness, the Pawnee braves below were careful to keep a weapon always at hand. It was their first consideration even as they relaxed or fell asleep. Their marauding life-style forced them to always keep their backs to a tree or rock, thus covering all approaches to them.
Fortunately for the Cheyenne, the high, isolated camp had lulled the Pawnee into a sense of security, and they posted no sentries. The moon had crawled much farther up in the sky before the camp fell silent. Finally Black Elk made the soft, clicking sound of a tree lizard—the signal to advance.
As he followed Black Elk toward the dying glow of the fires, Matthew reached to feel his own medicine bag for courage. Then, like the others, he dropped down on all fours and crept closer. Blood throbbed in his ears, and his calves felt like water.
Wolf Who Hunts Smiling was a dark form on his right, Little Horse a smaller shape on his left. They advanced silently, the night grass cool and damp against their bare skin. Sweat poured out of Matthew’s raggedly cropped hair and trickled into his eyes, burning them.
The fires were almost dead, making it difficult to distinguish shapes. Matthew moved toward the nearest stream of loud snoring. Every nerve ending in his body was raw with expectation.
When his groping hand struck warm buffalo fur, a Pawnee muttered in his sleep. Matthew froze and his heart scampered like a frenzied rat. Finally the ragged snoring resumed.
Sweat beading into his eyes, he waited for the wind to blow several clouds away from in front of the moon. Slowly, as silver moonlight washed over the camp, he realized that the Pawnee had passed out in a drunken stupor, half out of his robes. His medicine bag was visible. Matthew relaxed slightly—liquor had made his task easier.
