by Yenne, Bill
“Assa, nápikoan, oki,” the man said cordially as Cole appeared in his doorway.
Though he claimed less than the barest understanding of the language, Cole did recognize the greeting “oki” and term for “white man,” “nápikoan.” He had always appreciated that it was a more literal translation than the Lakota word for his race, which was the derogatory “wasichu,” meaning “the one who steals the bacon fat.”
Cole handed the chief the tobacco, a gesture which the chief seemed to appreciate. With this, the old man shot a glance toward one of the younger men which needed no translation. It said pointedly that “this white man isn’t as discourteous as you thought.”
“Ke-a-e-es-tsa-kos-ach-kit-satope,” the old man said to the young man, who immediately spread a buffalo robe for Cole to sit on.
The chief had a leathery, lined face that was deeply tanned in contrast to his long, snow white hair. His eyes were bright and sharp, and it was hard to judge his age. By those eyes, he could have been thirty. By the texture of his skin and the color of his hair, he could have been a hundred.
“Nitsinihka’sim O-mis-tai-po-kah,” he said. introducing himself. “Kiistawa, tsa kitanikkoowa?” he continued, pointing at his guest.
The words made no more sense to Bladen than water gurgling over rocks in a stream bed, but by the gestures, he understood that the man had introduced himself and wanted to know his name.
“Bladen Cole,” he replied, pointing to himself.
“Ahhh, Bladencool,” the man said, leaning back on his buffalo robe.
With this, evidently believing now that “Bladencool” understood some of the rudiments of the lingua franca, the man began relating some sort of story. Though it was accompanied by gestures, Cole became completely lost. He recognized the sign for “horse,” but beyond that, he couldn’t follow the man’s narrative at all.
Finally, this confusion became apparent, and the chief impatiently turned to one of the younger men, who got up and left, as though he had been sent to fetch something.
The chief continued, but with simpler and easier to understand sign language. The fellow was making what amounted to small talk. He asked how far Cole had come and nodded his understanding when Cole explained that he had been following the three men for four sleeps.
They were deep into their conversation when a shadow appeared in the doorway.
Cole looked up to see a young woman with dark, riveting eyes, who looked to be in her early twenties. Her features were as smooth and delicate as the old man’s were hard-edged and textured. Her long hair, which she wore in braids, was as black as his was white. She was wearing a double-row necklace made of elk teeth and a buckskin dress, lightly decorated with porcupine quills.
She listened intently as the old man spoke to her, nodding periodically and glancing occasionally at the white man. Cole could not take his eyes off her and savored the grace of her movements as she was invited to sit on a buffalo robe near him.
“Mr. Bladencool,” she said looking at him, appearing to work hard to choose her words. “My name is Natoya-I-nis’kim. My uncle . . . his name is O-mis-tai-po-kah . . . has requested me to translate his words to you.”
She smiled bashfully and asked, “Do you understand my words? I have not spoken in English for many months.”
“Yes, I understand you just fine,” Cole replied, trying to enunciate clearly. “Actually my name is Bladen Cole . . . two words.”
“I’m sorry . . . Mr. Cool. I understand. Two names . . . yes, I understand.”
“You speak English very good,” he said to compliment her. “Where did you learn . . . way out here?”
“I was taught at the mission school. I attended as a girl. I am happy I remember the words.”
“Your uncle seems proud of you,” Cole said.
“My uncle, who is named O-mis-tai-po-kah for the white medicine buffalo calf who was born at the same time as he, is iikaatowa’pii, very powerful with spirit power . . . great medicine.”
“What is it that your uncle wants with me? I understood something about horses . . . but that was about it.”
“There were Pikuni Siksikáwa renegades who stole many ponokáómitaa . . . many horses . . . from us,” she said, gesturing elegantly. “They have become into one band with the Káínawa Siksikáwa who live in the red coats’ country.”
“So that I understand,” Cole recapped, “some people from your own tribe stole some of your horses and they’re running with some people from the Káínawa Blackfeet up in Canada?”
“Yes.”
“And your uncle wants my help in getting the horses back?”
“Yes . . . and also to punish the Pikuni for riding with our enemy.”
As with many tribes, including the pale-skinned ones from Cole’s world, people who seemed indistinguishable to outsiders were often rivals—or worse. The Pikuni Siksikáwa of Montana and the Káínawa in Canada shared a language and a culture, yet they had been openly hostile with one another forever. Of course, in Cole’s own generation, the Civil War had consumed nearly a million lives of men, men just like him, men who were on two sides but who nevertheless spoke the same language.
“Where are they now, the renegades and the Káínawa?” Cole asked. “Did they go back into Canada?”
“No . . . they went to the Mistákists Ikánatsiaw, the mountains which go to the sun,” she said, “. . . one or two sleeps toward the place of the setting sun . . . to the west from here.”
“Why does he need an outsider for this?” Cole asked.
“Because most of our young men have gone away to hunt the iiníí . . . the buffalo . . . far to the east . . . many sleeps. They stole the horses because we were in a moment of weakness. We need help.”
“How did you decide to pick me?”
“Ikutsikakatósi and Ómahkaatsistawa,” she said, nodding to the two young men. “They spotted you this morning as the sun rose. They told my uncle about the white man riding where white men usually do not come. He said to get the white man to help.”
“You don’t see too many white men out here, then?”
“No, not this side of the trading posts, not in many moons.”
“I was told there were three others who came this way a day or two ago.”
“I haven’t heard of them, they must have gone some other way,” she said. Her expression agreed with her words.
“Must have,” Cole said.
The old man said something, but Cole didn’t hear it; his rapt attention had been on watching Natoya’s graceful gesture as she pointed to the west.
She heard it though and quickly translated.
“You will go now . . . you will go aami’toohski . . . westward at once.”
The chief said something to the men that caused them to grimace and Natoya to giggle slightly.
“I have one more question,” Cole said, turning to Natoya. “Why me? Why did I get singled out for this escapade?”
“Because Ikutsikakatósi and Ómahkaatsistawa could see by your guns that you were a man who could fight . . . O-mis-tai-po-kah could see by your eyes that you are a fighter who does not like to lose.”
“If I would not have come with them . . . if I wouldn’t have agreed to this . . . ?”
“They would kill you and take your guns,” she replied, her expression very matter of fact.
* * *
THE THREE MEN RODE OUT OF THE CAMP TOGETHER, BUT when they crested the hill at the far side of the river valley, the Blackfeet reined their horses ahead of Cole’s, deliberately shunning him. It was obviously a matter of hurt pride that a nápikoan had to be hired to help them do their job. Being thusly ostracized did not bother Cole in the least. If it was him, he would have felt the same way.
Nor did it bother him to be riding alone. He had long preferred it that wa
y, he thought to himself. But, thinking of Will, he recalled that he had not always felt that way.
As they rode westward toward the descending sun of mid-afternoon, he thought about the Porter boys and about their biblical names. From what he recalled about his own Bible learning, which was not that much, Gideon’s biblical namesake was called “the Destroyer,” but he did his destroying on orders from God. There were a couple of Enochs in the Bible, but Cole could remember only the one who was the son of Cain, who had committed the world’s first homicide. He wondered whether the missionaries had taught the Blackfeet children about these men.
The Porter boys were his reason for being out here in the first place, and his thoughts turned to their whereabouts, and how long it would take to find them in this country. They were at least a day ahead of him, but having crossed north of the Marias, they had crossed north of their past, and they would no longer be running. Their pace would have slackened, and they would have relaxed and made their presence known to the locals.
If not Natoya’s band, then some other Siksikáwa band or other out here would have seen them, and word would spread. That word would not spread to ears accustomed to English, but it would spread, and sooner or later, Cole would know.
As he had done since crossing the Marias, Cole was keeping his eyes on the horizon. Yesterday, he’d had potential enemies in anyone who might choose to distrust a stranger. Now that he had taken a side in a civil war, he had real enemies. He could count on the wary eyes of his two companions to see danger first, but still, he kept his eyes on the horizon.
The last place that he had expected to see that horizon populated was in the direction straight behind him—yet there it was, a rider coming up from behind at a gallop.
The two Siksikáwa men reined up their horses and exchanged words which Cole did not understand, except that they were more of aversion than alarm.
Cole could see why. The rider was Natoya-I-nis’kim, loping toward them on a paint, her braids swirling about her head as she came.
“Iiksoka’pii kitsinohsi!” she said to the two men, laughing as she brought her horse to a stop. Even back home in Virginia, where women took to riding with great pride of accomplishment, Cole had never seen a woman who could handle a horse with such skill.
They spoke with her angrily, pointing their fingers back in the direction of their village. Cole chuckled as she told them off. At last, the argument reached an impasse. They turned their backs on her and resumed the westward trek, ignoring her as they had been ignoring the white man.
“What was that all about?” Cole asked.
“I told Ikutsikakatósi and Ómahkaatsistawa I am happy to see them,” she said, smiling mischievously.
“They aren’t happy to see you.”
“I don’t care,” she said playfully.
“Why are you here?”
“Uncle told me to come,” she explained. “There will be a need to translate. Ikutsikakatósi and Ómahkaatsistawa would not speak to you if they could, but they cannot.”
“They don’t want to speak to you either . . . at least not to say a civil word.”
“This is not a place for a woman, they said,” Natoya explained with a smirk.
“It isn’t,” Cole agreed. “This will be dangerous.”
“I will be dangerous,” she said with a slight grin, pulling back the edge of her buffalo robe to show him that she had a holster strapped around her waist that contained an older model Colt Navy revolver.
“Where did you get that?”
“Trader.”
“Have you used it?”
“Yes.”
Bladen Cole held his tongue. It really wasn’t a place for a woman, even if she could handle a horse and use a gun. Where there was the probability of a gunfight, it was a bad place for a woman, but it was, he decided, not his place to tell an Indian girl, especially one displaying such confidence, that she was in the wrong place.
On the other hand, the old man was right, an interpreter could prove useful—not only in accomplishing the old man’s purpose, but in accomplishing Cole’s as well. It was just a pity, he felt, that there were so few men in the camp that the chief had to send his young niece.
“When will the other men be back from their buffalo hunt?”
“Before the snow,” she said, looking to the north and speaking without her previous assurance.
“Your uncle is named after the white buffalo?” Cole said, making conversation after a mile or so of riding in silence.
“Yes, a calf was born when he was born.”
“You didn’t tell be the meaning of your name,” he said.
“Inis’kim is the ‘Medicine Stone,’” she said. “‘Medicine Buffalo Stone.’”
“That sounds important.”
“My mother found one when I was in her belly,” she explained. “It is the stone which sings. It is the stone bringing good luck. Long ago, in the winter that the iiníí . . . the buffalo went away, a woman found the first stone in a cottonwood tree when she went to a stream to get water for cooking. The Inis’kim sang to her and told her to take it home to her lodge. It said that buffalo will return and hearts will be glad.”
“Did it work?”
“She taught the Inis’kim song to her husband and the elders. They knew that it was powerful. They sang. They prayed. The buffalo came.”
“Does your mother still have it?”
“My mother has gone . . . Absaroka raiders. My father too.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cole said meekly, knowing that he had touched a nerve.
“That’s when I went to the mission school,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
Cole made another innocuous comment about the weather and the approach of winter, and afterward, they rode on without talking.
Chapter 8
THE WISTFUL GIRL WITH THE TEAR ON HER CHEEK REASSERTED herself at the camp that night. When the Siksikáwa men, each a head taller than she, insisted that water be fetched for cooking, an argument ensued. It ended with Ikutsikakatósi taking the basket to the stream.
Bladen Cole found this greatly amusing.
“We’d better build this fire good so we don’t get a visit from a grizzly tonight,” Cole said, shoving some cottonwood sticks into the fire.
“Yes . . . you are right,” Natoya agreed. “It is a dangerous animal . . . and a powerful animal in many ways.”
“That’s for sure,” Cole agreed.
“And he is a very powerful animal with nátosini . . . um . . . how to you say . . . medicine?”
“Supernatural power?”
“Yes . . . supernatural power, nátosini.”
“So the grizzly is sacred to the Siksikáwa?” Cole asked.
“In the way that everything in the world is sacred,” Natoya explained. “In the way that the black robes thought we ‘worshipped’ trees and badgers.”
Poking a stick to turn a piece of cottonwood in the fire, she continued her recollections of the missionaries.
“There was one black robe who understood . . . but mostly they did not, and we laughed at them behind their backs. That is not very polite, I know . . . but we were children . . .”
“I think it’s funny,” Cole chuckled, imagining a bevy of Blackfeet girls giggling about the inability of the missionaries to understand the people they were teaching.
“Of all the kiááyo, all the bears, the apóhkiááyo . . . you call him ‘grizzly,’ is feared and respected above all,” Natoya continued.
“So that makes him sacred?”
“I do not have the Naapi’powahsin . . . the English words to explain. It is not ‘sacred’ in the missionary way of being sacred, just as we do not ‘worship’ trees in the missionary way of worshipping. Apóhkiááyo is important to the Siksikáwa . . . no
t the same way as the buffalo . . . but . . . I don’t have the words . . . apóhkiááyo is greatly feared and greatly respected. I’m sorry that is the best I can explain.”
Cole disagreed. “You have very good English words,” he said. “I know a lot of white people who do less of a job explaining things.”
“Don’t let me be selfish,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“I am so happy to have someone . . . so I can speak my Naapi’powahsin . . . my English words.”
“You’re not selfish at all . . . I’m happy to have someone to speak English words with myself.”
She smiled and turned away.
“But about the grizzly . . . and it being sacred in the way that it is . . . and I know that’s the wrong English word . . . There’s something that I gotta tell you . . . gotta admit to.”
“What’s that?”
“I killed one yesterday. I killed a grizzly.”
Natoya-I-nis’kim looked at him with a mixture of shock and bewilderment.
“Yeah, I was coming across the plains and I came across a fresh elk kill,” he said. “The thing reared up and charged before I knew what was happening. I got off three shots . . . the last one was a lucky shot. So I killed a sacred bear. I’m sorry to say that, knowing that they’re important to your people . . . to the Siksikáwa . . . but it was him or me.”
“It is a very great thing to overcome apóhkiááyo in a fight,” Natoya said.
She seemed impressed, rather than upset, a fact that caused Cole to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Because of their strength, and their great nátosini . . . It is hard to kill him in a fight. Most men cannot. Most men die. A man who kills him in a fight inherits his power.”
“How does that work?” Cole asked.
