Murder at Medicine Lodge

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  The question was posed to a scowling White Bear. He turned slightly away, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The unrelenting sun radiantly outlined his near-naked body, the aura emphasizing his great height and girth. With his hair partially tied up in a knot just behind his crown, his head seemed to erupt from his shoulders. White Bear did not have much of a neck—what there was of it, blended in with his shoulders in a manner similar to the neck muscle of a great bull.

  White Bear was known as Satanta by the whites. Not only did they get his name—Set’tainte—wrong, they also erred in believing that the vacant expression he could sometimes get while enduring the long hours of the peace councils the American government seemed so desperately fond of, meant that mentally he was as blank as a board. They failed to notice the quick, dangerously alert eyes set in that broad expressionless face. If they had, they would have known that there was a lively mind inside that large head. White Bear had the same cunning of one of their own tactically brilliant generals. But the side of himself he readily showed the world, was that of a very large man who loved practical jokes. Yet even in this boisterous display he could be quite lethal. That humor of his was threatening the moment now, as he tried to explain to me just how Three Elks had received his very peculiar wound.

  “My favorite nephew”—he said, meaning The Cheyenne Robber—“seems to be the cause of this unfortunate accident.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder to his nephew, a shockingly magnificent specimen of male animal. The Cheyenne Robber did his best to appear contrite. The attempt failed. The best he was able to manage was a defensive arrogance. If you could have seen him, you would have understood why. Any human being that splendid could not help but be arrogant. In fact, as his friend, there were times when I wanted to be arrogant for him. But he didn’t need my services. He already had a swarm of lieutenants willing and able to carry any excesses of his vanity between them.

  His haughtiness was not seen as a fault, but his natural due. As with the genesis of the Osage, The Cheyenne Robber looked as though he had appeared by divine hand from the sky and was content, for a time, to dwell among thoroughly undeserving mortals. He stood somewhere over six feet in height and every inch of him was perfectly proportioned. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and below slim hips were two long legs as well-muscled as any horse’s. As you might imagine, he wore everything disgustingly well and on that blazing hot day he looked especially well in a very short breechcloth, a Navaho silver belt slung low on his hips, a pair of knee-length moccasin boots, and hair the color of pitch left to hang down his back to his waist. He was so good-looking that even the half-disgusted expression on his face failed to dull his handsomeness. Mistaking my quiet admiration of him as a wait for an explanation or an apology, he folded his arms across his bare chest and commenced to glare at me from under hooded eyes. As always, when realizing that I had The Cheyenne Robber’s full and concentrated attention, I began to feel weak in the knees.

  In my defense, I was not the only one thus afflicted by his piercing gaze. Women were known to drop in a dead faint whenever they were singled out by him. To my knowledge, there was only one female who ever proved the exception. A young woman known as White Otter. When he first met her and she failed to swoon or drool on herself, The Cheyenne Robber had to know why not. This needing-to-know began a hot pursuit of her, culminating in their marriage. White Otter did eventually faint at his feet but only because she was pregnant. Now she was the mother of his baby son and her attentions had become so divided that she simply didn’t have the strength or the inclination to feed her husband’s massive conceit. Not surprisingly, The Cheyenne Robber’s temperament was known to be surly of late; his moods so foul that it would not have surprised me in the least to learn that he had shot Three Elks in the butt on purpose, and for no other reason than he was feeling the need to shoot something.

  The Cheyenne Robber turned his face away from me, looking at his older brother Skywalker, who was squatting down, not looking at anyone in particular, his expression pensive. Skywalker was an Owl Doctor; a mystic—if you must qualify him as such—having the ability to blank out every living thing around him while he listened to the voices speaking to him from an unseen world. He wasn’t blank now, so he wasn’t having one of his “spells” as we called them. If anything, he was very aware and highly irritated. I knew for a solid fact that he didn’t approve of our Nation going into Kansas. He’d been more than vocal on the subject, saying that the Kiowas should show their contempt for the peace talks by staying away. But our people heard that the army would be bringing many wagons filled with gifts and that there would be great feasts—presents and food are two things Indian people love.

  In the end, Skywalker had been overruled. Our new principal chief, Lone Wolf, was a man of great pride. He couldn’t see himself excluded from the talks with the Washington government when the chiefs of the other nations of the Plains Confederacy were certain to be there. This was the first truly important event in the early days of his chieftainship and he was not about to miss it. The vote naturally upset him, but Skywalker wasn’t normally a sulker. His less-than-social attitude of late sprang from something else. Something he would not share, not even with me, a man supposed to be his best friend. As a matter of fact, for almost a week now, he hadn’t spoken to me at all, causing me to worry about a friendship I’d formerly taken for granted.

  Standing to his feet, not looking at me or anyone else, he went for his horse. No one tried to stop him or call him back. If he would persist in being ill-natured, then he wasn’t wanted—at least, by the majority. I—decidedly in the minority—wanted him to stay, but after he brushed by me as if he’d never known me, I held my tongue and did nothing more than watch him as he rode off, disappearing over the rise.

  Once he was out of sight, with effort I concentrated my attentions on my patient, examining the wound while White Bear and The Cheyenne Robber began to argue. As Three Elks’ condition wasn’t funny to him anymore, White Bear was now demanding to know precisely how the man had come to be shot.

  The thing that happened—or at least, it was The Cheyenne Robber’s explanation—was that his horse had stumbled or shied, and as he worked to bring the horse under control, the rifle resting across his lap went off, the bullet finding its way to Three Elks’ left haunch. Had this happened in battle, it would have been considered a lucky shot; but as Three Elks was a friend, it was quickly put down to a freakish accident. One that would cost The Cheyenne Robber many expensive gifts, as Three Elks was in considerable pain and, because that bullet was now known to be lead, he would experience a great deal more while it was being dug out.

  To lessen (granted a bit late) Three Elks’ dire humiliation, those warriors not needed to help with the procedure were told to go back to where the women were, to guard the camp and have a meal. The Cheyenne Robber volunteered to be in that number; and as he was becoming even more grim-natured about the entire incident—and a grim The Cheyenne Robber was distinctively of no help to anyone—White Bear granted permission for him to go. Led by Lone Wolf, there was the subsequent departure of the host of warriors, leaving me with Big Tree and his brother Dangerous Eagle, Kicking Bird, White Bear, and a warrior known as Raven’s Wing to help me with Three Elks. I had wished mightily that White Bear would go, too, but because he did not like being shown up in any way by his archrival Kicking Bird, he stayed.

  As did his warped humor.

  The trouble with tending the wound was its inconvenient angle. My digging around inside for the bullet caused Three Elks to be understandably squirmy. To keep him still, it took the combined strength of all the men present to try to hold him in place. Unfortunately for all of us, White Bear found himself standing almost directly behind the patient, holding Three Elks’ twitchy hips as best he could. I was using the small metal digging tool that Haw-we-sun, a Thaiqahi (white man) and friend of mine who is also a doctor, had given to me. Hawwy was a Blue Jacket
(soldier) doctor. He had all sorts of amazing tools. To make friends with me, he allowed me to choose any three of his doctoring tools that I wanted. The digging tool had been my first choice. It was wonderful because it was able to dig and scoop at the same time. At least I thought it was wonderful. During the procedure Three Elks hollered an entirely different opinion. It was over Three Elks’ caterwauling that the indignity of his position in the scuffle finally struck White Bear.

  “Tay-bodal!” he thundered. “Be a little quicker. If the Cheyennes and Arapahos should suddenly appear, I really wouldn’t care to know what they might think we’re doing with Three Elks.”

  Big Tree looked back at White Bear, then he fell over laughing. He was followed rather rapidly by Dangerous Eagle. The instant Three Elks found himself partially free, he wormed out of White Bear’s grasp and began to run, howling with pain and pumping blood from the gaping wound. Which meant, of course, that we had to chase him around. Not an easy task seeing as how we were all running against high grass, bobbing our way through it like panicked rabbits.

  Raven’s Wing, a very leggy man, was approximately my age, which would have put him a bit over thirty years. But Raven’s Wing looked much older. The texture of his skin was like that of an old boot, a condition common to warriors on the war road and having to go without water for long periods in the punishing heat of full summer. Warriors of Raven’s Wing’s class, the Odegufa (meaning “less wealthy”), wore their leathery skin like badges of honor. It was also a clear indication that they were striving hard to become Ondes, members of our Nation’s highest class. Myself, I have always been content to be a Kauaun (roughly translated, “common”). As such, other than the pox pits, my skin was baby-smooth and I liked it. So did Crying Wind. But I digress.

  Raven’s Wing, a man whose sole desire in life was to be White Bear’s first lieutenant and thus was always seeking ways to impress him, put a flying tackle on Three Elks, successfully bringing him down. And while he was down, being held there by the others, I dug that bullet out despite Three Elks screaming and writhing. Then I stitched him up—which produced more yelling (he really was the worst patient I’ve ever known)—and finally bandaged him. It wasn’t a very good bandage but considering the grappling circumstances, a botched bandage had to do because the smell of blood was attracting biting flies. The insects were trying hard to get at the wound and their success would not have done at all. At any rate, as a hurried attempt, it would do until such time as we made a suitable camp. He wasn’t yelling anymore, just sort of snuffling and flinging away tears with the flat of his hand, looking at all of us—me most especially—as if we were evil.

  When I returned to my wife, she was eagerly waiting for any juicy tidbit concerning my patient, her dark owl-shaped eyes literally glowing with anticipation. Really, this love for rumormongering was her most unflattering trait, and despite the fact that months ago, gossiping tongues set against her had very nearly cost her her life, she still wasn’t cured. I was barely dismounted when she was all over me like a heat rash.

  “Is it true The Cheyenne Robber shot Three Elks in the back?”

  Looking at her with a hard expression, I wordlessly set to the task of hobbling my horse. She ignored the warning look, coming after me, squatting down beside me chattering like a busy squirrel.

  “A few days ago, two women saw Three Elks speaking to White Otter.” Her tone became more whispery, filled with wonder. “They were alone.” I glanced at her and she nodded meaningfully. In a much lower voice she finished, “He even helped her as she tied on the cradle board and—”

  “I fail to see anything untoward about his actions,” I shouted. “It sounds to me as if he was being nothing more than a helpful brother.”

  She slapped my arm. “Do you never understand anything? Three Elks touched another man’s wife! That’s why The Cheyenne Robber shot him.”

  I turned a pained face toward her. Crying Wind’s expression was utterly self-satisfied. I suppose I was remembering too clearly what gossip had almost cost me—cost us. That’s the only excuse I have for the complete loss of my temper. I really let her have it, and as each word stung, her lovely face became more stricken.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that as a doctor’s wife your love for tattling is both unseemly and insulting? And may I remind you that this nature of yours is also unsafe? It wasn’t so long ago that you were accused of being a witch by those who should have known better. Yet here you are, eager once again to believe the worst of a simple accident and actually help your tongue-wagging sisters and aunties spread this harmful tale. You should all be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.”

  She stood and walked away.

  I was not given anything to eat and she did not speak directly to me for the next three days. If it hadn’t been for Favorite Son’s continual grousing, I would have enjoyed the peace for, not long after arriving at Medicine Lodge, those three days were the only respite I was to know. Most especially after learning that, in the Blue Jacket army, no one liked the bugler.

  TWO

  I think my most favorite thing is the grass-dancing, a ceremony that signals the opening of a camp. Teams of our longest-legged warriors wearing their finest dress, ventured out into the open fields and, to the music of the drums and the singing of many voices, they danced in skillful leg-swinging motions, trampling down the tall grasses. We had safely reached the wide valley of Medicine Lodge and the dance celebrated the end of tedious travel.

  In life, it is always the simple things which give us the most pleasure, and this simple thing of opening the camp lifted our spirits as nothing else could. Our voices grew stronger, filling the valley with our presence. We wanted the already-encamped Blue Jackets and various tribes to know that the true People, the Cauigu (Kiowa), had arrived. When our own voices came back to us from the surround of foothills, we knew the other camps had clearly heard.

  Next came the rush for the best places for individual family camps. Crying Wind wasted no time or words, for she had already decided on a shady place close to the creek. She was a canny woman but also somewhat lazy. She always set up our home close to a good water source and wood supply. That way she never had to walk very far for either. Taking my faster horse, she galloped off, racing against the other women who had designs on such a location themselves. With my wife’s departure I was left with the task of struggling with our temper tantrum–throwing son, as well as moving along our tiny herd, while guiding the horses pulling the travois containing everything we owned. The false summer was holding, the day was hot, and sweat poured from me as I coaxed and cajoled child and horses.

  The trouble was that both had understood the grass-dance ceremony, too. My son didn’t want to move another inch and the horses wanted to go immediately into pasture. The herd I grappled with consisted of five extra horses, Crying Wind’s mare, Favorite Son’s pony, and the three drag-horses. Not a great number, really, but enough to give me trouble. Pulling and tugging, I strained all of us forward. I couldn’t see the campsite my wife had gone for. The landscape rose a bit and all I had left of my wife’s determined direction was a faceful of dust. Impatient and cranky, I yelled at my horses and my son. My son began to bawl and Crying Wind’s mare wasn’t happy with me on its back. As I was heavier than it was used to, it responded by prancing sideways, nodding its head in a dangerous manner. To add to my worries, the old roan pulling one of the travois just stopped dead-still and began to graze, sending me one-eyed furtive looks.

  Now, I have never beaten a horse, and for two very good reasons. One, horses are sacred beings and must be treated with complete respect. Two, an angry horse can hurt you. That old horse was telling me in no uncertain terms that if I did not allow it a moment to replenish itself, that it would bolt, tipping the travois and leaving me to pick up our household goods, which it would spread all over the valley. Now, considering the heat, that really would have hurt me.

  Heaving a dejected sigh, I dismounted and went to my squawking son, p
ulling him down from his pony. Then I tried not to laugh. After many days of riding, his little legs stuck out oddly, for they were still too short to bend correctly around the pony’s belly. Favorite Son was having a hard time trying to pull his legs together and was being quite specific about the pains in his groin. Patting his head, I thought, Welcome to manhood.

  I did not have time to offer manly advice, for just then my wife came stomping over the rise. She stopped at the crest and waved an arm, her manner intolerant of our loitering. That she was on foot meant she had left my horse as a marker in the spot she had selected for our home camp. She then turned her back on us and, with her hands on her hips, she kept a sharp lookout for any unscrupulous woman that might take it into her head to move the marking horse. Housewives could be sneaky, worse than the Lakota, really, and even though some of the women she watched out for were her own sisters and aunties, when it came to prime camping areas, Crying Wind didn’t trust any one of them.

  Encouraging my son to walk out the pains in his wobbly, bowed-out legs, I began leading the horses up the slight incline toward her. And— I forget. Did I say it was hot? Well, it was. I cannot stress this too much, for this is a memory of Medicine Lodge that comes to me each and every time I think of the place. An arid heat filling the valley of about twenty miles, shimmering under a sun so blazing-hot that the skin blistered and lungs were seared with each drawn breath. This was the way of the high prairies. There the land is either boiling hot or freezing cold. This was Osage country and, as far as I was concerned, they were welcome to it.

  Despite the heat, the snuffles of my son, and the uncooperative attitudes of the horses, I pulled all of us forward, up an incline that felt steeper than it looked. With each step I took, I believed it would be my last, as I was about to expire from heatstroke. My own peril quickly reminded me to spread the word among our people to double up on their daily ration of salt. I was thinking about that, thinking that we Kiowa who preferred more humid climes were at risk in this awful place, when the horses, my little boy, and I, finally made it up that hill.