The Mammoth Book of Westerns

by Jon E. Lewis

  Now there is nothing to keep me, he realized. When I get home, I must not let them see the scars.

  He looked at Greasy Hand, hideous in her grief-burdened age, and thought: I really am free now! When a wife dies, her husband has no more duty toward her family. Pretty Calf had told him so, long ago, when he wondered why a certain man moved out of one tepee and into another.

  The old woman, of course, would be a scavenger. There was one other with the tribe, an ancient crone who had no relatives, toward whom no one felt any responsibility. She lived on food thrown away by the more fortunate. She slept in shelters that she built with her own knotted hands. She plodded wearily at the end of the procession when the camp moved. When she stumbled, nobody cared. When she died, nobody would miss her.

  Tomorrow morning, the white man decided, I will go.

  His mother-in-law’s sunken mouth quivered. She said one word, questioningly. She said, “Eero-oshay?” She said, “Son?”

  Blinking, he remembered. When a wife died, her husband was free. But her mother, who had ignored him with dignity, might if she wished ask him to stay. She invited him by calling him Son, and he accepted by answering Mother.

  Greasy Hand stood before him, bowed with years, withered with unceasing labor, loveless and childless, scarred with grief. But with all her burdens, she still loved life enough to beg it from him, the only person she had any right to ask. She was stripping herself of all she had left, her pride.

  He looked eastward across the prairie. Two thousand miles away was home. The old woman would not live forever. He could afford to wait, for he was young. He could afford to be magnanimous, for he knew he was a man. He gave her the answer. “Eegya,” he said. “Mother.”

  He went home three years later. He explained no more than to say, “I lived with Crows for a while. It was some time before I could leave. They called me Horse.”

  He did not find it necessary either to apologize or to boast, because he was the equal of any man on earth.

  STEVE FRAZEE

  Great Medicine

  CHARLES STEPHEN FRAZEE (1909–1992) was born in Salida, Colorado, and graduated from Western State College in 1937. For a number of years he worked in the construction industry, before serving with the US Navy, 1943–1945. He commenced writing fiction in 1946, and during the 1950s was one of the leading writers of Western stories for the pulp and digest magazines. Over the course of the same decade, Frazee also wrote twenty one Western novels, among them: High Cage (1957), Desert Guns (1957), and Rendezvous (1958). His career slowed considerably thereafter, due to extended service as a probation officer. Frazee’s pulp Western fiction is distinguished, in particular, by its vivid settings and unusual storylines. Several of Frazee’s works have been filmed, most notably the contemporary Western story ‘My Brother Down There’, which formed the basis for Running Target (1956), directed by Marvin Weinstein.

  The story ‘Great Medicine’, which is set on the northern plains, was first published in the digest magazine Gunsmoke in 1953.

  DEEP IN THE COUNTRY of the Crows, Little Belly squatted in the alders, waiting for his scouts. The Crows were many and angry in the hills this summer, and there was time to think of that; but since Little Belly was a Blackfoot who had counted five coups he could not allow his fear, even to himself.

  He waited in the dappled shadows for more important news than word of Indians who did not love the Blackfeet.

  Wild and long before him, the ridges whispered a soft, cool song. In shining steps, beaver ponds dropped to the great river flowing east toward the land of those with the mighty medicine. Dark and motionless, Little Belly waited.

  He saw at last brief movement on a far hill, a touch of sun on the neck of a pony, the merest flash of a rider who had come too close to the edge of the trees.

  That was No Horns and his appaloosa. No Horns, as ever, was riding without care. He was a Piegan and Little Belly was a Blood, both Blackfeet; but Blackfeet loved no one, sometimes not even each other. So Little Belly fingered his English knife and thought how easily small things caused one to die.

  He saw no more of No Horns until the scout was quite close, and by then Whirlwind, the other scout, was also on the ridge. They came to Little Belly, not obliged to obey him, still doubtful of his mission.

  Little Belly said to No Horns, “From a great distance I saw you.”

  “Let the Crows see me also.” No Horns stretched on the ground with a grunt. Soon his chest was covered with mosquitoes.

  Whirlwind looked to the east. Where the river broke the fierce sweep of ridges there was a wide, grassy route that marked the going and coming of Crows to the plains. Whirlwind pointed. “Two days.”

  “How many come?” Little Belly asked.

  Whirlwind signalled fifty. “The Broken Face leads.”

  No white man in the mountains was greater than the trapper chief, Broken Face, whom the white men knew as Yancey. He took beaver from the country of the Blackfeet, and he killed Blackfeet. The Crows who put their arms about him in his camps thought long before trying to steal the horses of his company. If there was any weakness in Broken Face it was a weakness of mercy.

  So considering, Little Belly formed the last part of his plan.

  Half dozing in the deep shade where the mosquitoes whined their hunting songs, No Horns asked, “ What is this medicine you will steal from the white trappers?”

  It was not muskets. The Blackfeet had killed Crows with English guns long before other white men came from the east to the mountains. It was not ponies. The Blackfeet traded with the Nez Perces for better horses than any white trapper owned. It was not in the pouches of the white men, for Little Belly had ripped into the pouches carried on the belts of dead trappers, finding no great medicine.

  But there was a power in white men that the Blackfeet feared. Twice now they had tried to wipe the trappers from the mountains forever, and twice the blood cost had been heavy; and the white men were still here. Little Belly felt a chill, born of the heavy shade and the long waiting, but coming mostly from the thought that what he must steal might be something that could not be carried in pouches.

  He stood up. “I do not know what it is, but I will know it when I see it.”

  “It is their talk to the sky,” Whirlwind said. “How can you steal that?”

  “I will learn it.”

  No Horns grunted. “They will not let you hear.”

  “I will travel with them, and I will hear it.”

  “It is their Man Above,” Whirlwind said. “He will know you are not a white man talking.”

  “No,” Little Belly said. “It is something they carry with them.”

  “I did not find it,” No Horns said, “and I have killed three white men.”

  “You did not kill them soon enough,” Little Belly said. “They hid their power before they died.”

  “If their medicine had been strong, I could not have killed them at all.” No Horns sat up. He left streaks of blood on the heavy muscles of his chest when he brushed mosquitoes away. “Their medicine is in their sky talk.”

  Whirlwind said, “ The Nez Perces sent chiefs to the white man’s biggest town on the muddy river. They asked for a white man to teach them of the Man Above, so that they could be strong like the white men. There were promises from the one who went across these mountains long ago. The chiefs died. No white man came to teach the Nez Perces about the sky talk to make them strong.”

  “The Nez Perces were fools,” Little Belly said. “Does one go in peace asking for the ponies of the Crows? It is not the sky talk of the trappers that makes them strong. It is something else. I will find it and steal it.”

  Whirlwind and No Horns followed him to the horses. Staying in the trees, they rode close to the river, close to a place where the trappers going to their summer meeting place must pass.

  Little Belly took a Crow arrow from his quiver. He gave it to Whirlwind, and then Little Belly touched his own shoulder. Whirlwind understood but hesitated.
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  He said, “There are two days yet.”

  “If the wound is fresh when the trappers come, they will wonder why no Crows are close,” Little Belly said.

  No Horns grinned like a buffalo wolf, showing his dislike of Little Belly. He snatched the arrow from Whirlwind, fitted it to his bow and drove it with a solid chop into Little Belly’s shoulder.

  With his face set to hide his pain, Little Belly turned his pony and rode into the rocks close by the grassy place to wait for the coming of the trappers. The feathered end of the shaft rose and fell to his motion, sawing the head against bone and muscle.

  He did not try to pull the arrow free while his companions were close. When he heard them ride away on the long trip back to Blackfoot country he tried to wrench the arrow from his shoulder. The barbs were locked against bone. They ground on it. The pain made Little Belly weak and savage, bringing water to his face and arms.

  He sat down in the rocks and hacked the tough shaft off a few inches from his shoulder. He clamped his teeth close to the bleeding flesh, trying with strong movements of his neck to draw the iron head. Like a dog stripping flesh from a bone he tugged. The arrow seemed to loosen, dragging flesh and sinew with it; but the pain was great. All at once the sky turned black.

  Little Belly’s pony pulled away from the unconscious man and trotted to join the other two.

  When Little Belly came back to the land of sky and grass he was willing to let the arrow stay where it was. It was better, too, that the white men would find him thus. But that night he was savage again with pain. He probed and twisted with the dull point of his knife until blood ran down and gathered in his breech clout. He could not get the arrow out. He thought then that he might die, and so he sang a death song, which meant that he was not afraid to die, and therefore, could not.

  He dozed. The night was long, but it passed in time and the sun spread brightness on the land of the Crows. Hot and thirsty, Little Belly listened to the river, but he would not go to it in daylight. It was well he did not, for seven long-haired Crows came by when the sun was high. Three of them saw his pony tracks and came toward the rocks. Others, riding higher on the slope, found the tracks of all three horses. They called out excitedly.

  A few seconds more and the three Crows coming toward Little Belly would have found him and chopped him up, but now they raced away to join the main hunt.

  All day the wounded Blackfoot burned with thirst. The sun was hotter than he had ever remembered; it heaped coals on him and tortured his eyes with mist. When night came he waded into the tugging current of the river, going deep, bathing his wound and drinking. By the time he crept into the rocks again he was as hot as before. Many visions came to him that night but they ran so fast upon each other afterward he could not remember one of them clearly enough to make significance from it.

  Old voices talked to him and old ghosts walked before him in the long black night. He was compressed by loneliness. The will to carry out his plan wavered. Sometimes he thought he would rise and run away, but he did not go.

  From afar he heard the trappers the next day. He crawled to the edge of the rocks. The Delaware scouts found him, grim, incurious men who were not truly Indians but brothers of the white trappers. Little Belly hated them.

  Without dismounting, they watched him, laughing. One of them tipped his rifle down.

  Little Belly found strength to rise then, facing the Delawares without fear. The dark, ghost-ridden hours were gone. These were but men. All they could do to Little Belly was to kill him. He looked at them and spat.

  Now their rifles pointed at the chest, but when the Delawares saw they could not make him afraid, they dismounted and flung him on the ground. They took his weapons. They grunted over his strong Nez Perce shield, thumping it with their hands. Then they threw it into the river. They broke his arrows and threw away his bow. One of them kept his knife.

  When they took his medicine pouch and scattered the contents on the ground, Little Belly would have fought them, and died, but he remembered that he had a mission.

  The big white man who came galloping on a powerful horse was not Broken Face. This white man’s beard grew only on his upper lip, like a long streak of sunset sky. His eyes were the color of deep ice upon a river. Strong and white his teeth flashed when he spoke to the Delawares. Little Belly saw at once that the Delawares stood in awe of this one, which was much to know.

  The white man leaped from his horse. His rifle was strange, two barrels lying one upon the other.

  “Blackfoot,” one of the Delawares said.

  Curiously, the white man looked at Little Belly.

  A Delaware took his tomahawk from his belt and leaned over the Blackfoot.

  “ No,” the white man said, without haste. He laughed. From his pocket he took a dark bone. A slender blade grew from it quickly. With this he cut the arrow from Little Belly’s shoulder. He lifted Little Belly to his feet, looking deep into the Blackfoot’s eyes.

  Little Belly tried to hide his pain.

  “Tough one,” the white man said.

  The Delaware with the tomahawk spoke in Blackfoot. “We should kill him now.” He looked at the white man’s face, and then, reluctantly, put away his tomahawk.

  Broken Face came then. Not far behind him were the mules packed with trade goods for the summer meeting. Long ago a Cheyenne lance had struck Broken Face in the corner of his mouth, crashing through below his ear. Now he never spoke directly before him but always to one side, half whispering. His eyes were the color of smoke from a lodge on a rainy day, wise from having seen many things in the mountains. He put tobacco in his mouth. He looked at Little Belly coldly.

  “One of old Thunder’s Bloods,” he said. “Why didn’t you let the Delawares have him, Stearns?”

  “I intended to, until I saw how tough he was.”

  “All Blackfeet are tough.” Broken Face spat.

  Little Belly studied the two men. The Broken Face was wise and strong, and the Blackfeet had not killed him yet; but already there were signs that the weakness of mercy was stirring in his mind. It was said that Broken Face did not kill unless attacked. Looking into Stearns’ pale eyes, Little Belly knew that Stearns would kill any time.

  “Couldn’t you use him?” Stearns asked.

  Broken Face shook his head.

  Stearns held up the bloody stub of arrow. He smiled. “No gratitude?”

  “Hell!” Broken Face said. “He’d pay you by slicing your liver. He’s Blackfoot. Leave him to the Delawares.”

  “What will they do?”

  “Throw him on a fire, maybe. Kill him by inches. Cut the meat off his bones and throw the bones in the river. The Bloods did that to one of them last summer.” Broken Face walked to his horse.

  “Couldn’t you use him to get into Blackfoot country peacefully?” Stearns asked. “Sort of a hostage?”

  “No. Any way you try to use a Blackfoot he don’t shine at all.” Broken Face got on his horse, studying the long ridges ahead. “Likely one of the Crows that was with us put the arrow into him. Too bad they didn’t do better. He’s no good to us. Blackfeet don’t make treaties, and if they did, they wouldn’t hold to ’em. They just don’t shine no way, Stearns. Come on.”

  Not by the words, but by the darkening of the Delawares’ eyes, Little Belly knew it was death. He thought of words to taunt the Delawares while they killed him, and then he remembered he had a mission. To die bravely was easy; but to steal powerful medicine was greatness.

  Little Belly looked to Stearns for mercy. The white man had saved him from the Delawares, and had cut the arrow from his shoulder; but those two deeds must have been matters of curiosity only. Now there was no mercy in the white man’s eyes. In one quick instant Little Belly and Stearns saw the utter ruthlessness of each other’s natures.

  Stearns was greater than Broken Face, Little Belly saw, for Stearns made no talk. He merely walked away.

  The Delawares freed their knives. “ Is the Blackfoot a great runner?�
�� one asked.

  In his own tongue Little Belly spoke directly to Broken Face. “I would travel with you to my home.”

  “The Crows would not thank me.” Broken Face began to ride away, with Stearns beside him.

  “Is the Blackfoot cold?” A Delaware began to kick apart a rotten log to build a fire.

  “I am one,” Little Belly said. “Give me back my knife and I will fight all of Broken Face’s Indians! Among my people Broken Face would be treated so.”

  “What did he say?” Stearns asked Broken Face.

  Broken Face told him. He let his horse go a few more paces and then he stopped. For an instant an anger of indecision twisted the good side of Broken Face’s mouth. “Let him go. Let him travel with us.”

  The ring of Delawares was angry, but they obeyed.

  It had been so close that Little Belly felt his limbs trembling; but it had worked: deep in Broken Face was softness that had grown since his early days in the mountains because he now loved beaver hides more than strength. Now he was a warrior with too many ponies.

  Little Belly pushed between the Delawares and began to gather up the items from his medicine pouch. It shamed him, but if he did not do so, he thought they might wonder too much and guess the nature of his cunning.

  Jarv Yancey – Broken Face – said to Stearns, “You saved his hide in the first place. Now you can try to watch him while he’s with us. It’ll teach you something.”

  Stearns grinned. “I didn’t know him from a Crow, until the Delawares told me. You know Blackfeet. Why’d you let him go?”

  Broken Face’s scowl showed that he was searching for an answer to satisfy himself. “Someday the Blackfeet may catch me. If they give me a running chance, that’s all I’ll want. Maybe this will help me get it.”

  “They’ll break your legs with a club before they give you that running chance.” Stearns laughed.

  There was startled shrewdness in the look the Mountain Man gave the greenhorn making his first trip to the Rockies. “You learn fast, Stearns.”