The female was ablaze with rage. They had stolen her prey. They were four and she was one and that should have deterred her but it didn’t. She was on them in a whirlwind of teeth and claws. She drove them from the doe, but once they were over their initial surprise, they laid back their ears and snarled and growled, prepared to fight for their meal.
The bloodlust was on her. The largest male wolf leaped and she met him in midair and opened his shoulder. He opened her leg. No sooner did she set herself than two others came at her from both sides. She drove one off with a flashing paw, but the other ripped her flank open and sprang out of reach.
They circled her.
She had made a grave mistake. She was more than a match for any single wolf, or even two, but certainly not four. Their numbers would be her downfall. Unless she fled, they would overwhelm her and bring her down.
She stayed. A compulsion had come over her, a willingness to fight to the death even if the death was hers. She crouched and her snarls rivaled theirs in a savage din.
The large male came at her and she swung her front paw. He dodged. Pain seared her hindquarters. In a flash she whirled and caught the culprit across the chest. More pain in her side, and she spun and tore a female wolf. They didn’t relent. Again and again they came at her, and again and again she drove them off. But each time cost her and although she inflicted wound after wound, they were four and she was one. They were wearing her down. She felt it, and they sensed it, and they closed in for the kill.
The cat had been bitten and clawed severely. She was bleeding and torn. A leap would carry her over them, but she crouched and snarled and then they were on her, four at once, and they bore her down and tore at her undersides. Slavering jaws gaped to clamp on her throat.
Suddenly a dark fury was among them. Strong blows sent each of the wolves tumbling. The large male wolf tried to rise, but the dark one was on him in a bound and bit into the back of his neck. The crunch of bone was sharp and loud. Before the body fell, the dark one was on the others, slashing and snapping. Such was the force of his attack that all three turned and ran rather than fight. He stood glaring and growling after them. When the sounds of their flight faded, he turned and stepped to the doe and began to eat.
She let him. It was her kill, but she moved to one side and licked her many wounds until he was done. Then she ate her own fill. When they made for the den, she followed him.
She spent a restless night. Many of the bites and cuts were deep, and whether she lay on her belly or either side, the pain kept her awake. Toward dawn she dozed and was awakened a few hours later by the squawk of a jay. The dark one was on the ledge. She went and stretched out next to him and only then did she realize that the young female had not returned. It was to be expected. She gave birth to them and nurtured them and taught them, and eventually there came a day when they struck off on their own. Occasionally one wouldn’t want to leave and she had to persuade it.
The dark one showed no inclination to go just yet. That pleased her.
The next day she went to a stream for water, but that was her only excursion. That night she slept a little better.
Within five moons she was well enough to hunt. She was in no shape to try to bring down a deer, so she settled for an incautious squirrel. It did little more than whet her appetite. When she got back she found a deer haunch on the ledge and the dark one asleep. She ate until she was gorged and slept until the next day. When she woke she felt almost like her old self.
Another winter froze the land. The snow was deeper than most winters, and she and the dark one spent much of their time in the den.
One evening she killed a doe and cached it. She returned the next day to feed on the carcass only to find a wolverine had laid claim to her kill. It looked up and bared its fangs. It wasn’t as big as she was and barely half her weight, but she had encountered its kind before. Of all the animals in the wilderness, wolverines were the fiercest. Even grizzlies gave way for them. She bared her own fangs and then discreetly retreated.
The winter was long and hard. The cold froze the lakes and the streams were sloughs of ice. She and the dark one had to range wide and far to find enough meat to sustain them, and at that it was barely enough.
A new spring restored their world. On a bright afternoon, she and the dark one were prowling a high ridge near the old den of a brown bear. A marmot spotted them and whistled. She didn’t stalk it. When she was young she had tried to catch them, but marmots always disappeared down into their holes before she could get close.
She and the dark one moved along a trail once used by the great bear. She came to a short piece of wood jutting from the ground and sniffed at it, puzzled by the faintest of vague odors. The dark one came and sniffed, too. He took a step past her and she heard a snap and suddenly he sprang into the air, screeching with pain. His left forepaw was caught in something that had been covered with leaves and dirt, and the paw was spurting blood. He snarled at it and twisted and pulled and wrenched, but his paw wouldn’t come free.
She was bewildered. This was new to her, and frightening. The thing that held him was hard like rock, but it was not like any rock she knew. To add to her bewilderment, it had sharp fangs that held the dark one fast. Small circles of the same hard material connected it to the short piece of wood. She tried to bite through but couldn’t.
The dark one renewed his efforts. He became near frantic. He snarled and screeched and leaped and pulled. She began to despair of ever freeing him when he threw himself up the bank and twisted his whole body, and suddenly his paw was free. Or half of it was. The rest stayed clamped in the hard teeth. He limped away and when she headed for the den he limped after her.
By the next morning the dark one’s leg was swollen and he could barely stand. A thick yellow pus oozed from the wound. He licked and licked, but it did his paw little good.
She thought she would lose him. For five sleeps he stayed on the ledge on his side. When she nosed him he didn’t move. His paw was a ruin. It was only half the size as before; only two claws were left. On the sixth day he sat up. She caught a grouse and shared it, but he ate little. She ambushed a fox and brought it back. The meat was stringy, but it was better than an empty stomach.
The dark one crawled to the stream. He drank and lowered his paw in and lay there the rest of the day. She stayed near, watching over him. When a pair of coyotes happened along, she chased them off.
That night the dark one limped back to the den. He slept until the sun was high in the sky the next day and limped down to the stream to drink and soak his paw. He did the same the day after. The pus stopped oozing and the swelling went down and he could move a little faster.
She killed a small doe and brought it to him. The dark one ate and then she ate and between them there wasn’t much left. The dark one slept some more. About the middle of the night she got up and went to the meadow and lay in wait until sunrise for deer to show, but none did. When she climbed back to the den, the dark one was gone.
The morning sun was warm, and she dozed. When it was straight overhead she rose and yawned and arched her back. The dark one still wasn’t back. She went to the stream, but he wasn’t there. She went to the meadow, but he wasn’t there. She roved wide, but found no trace of him.
That night she heard a grizzly roar and wolves howl and a lynx shriek, but she did not hear any of her own kind. She did not hear the dark one.
At daybreak she was on the move. No deer were at the meadow, so she ventured down the mountain to another. Half a dozen does were feeding. She got upwind and crept to within leaping range.
Suddenly the deer raised their heads and looked right at her. Or so she thought until a noise came from behind her. She was rising when there was a sharp pain in her side and she was jolted half around. For a few heartbeats she was rooted by the sight of a feathered shaft sticking out of her. Wheeling, she went to race off, but another pain shot through her and she pitched forward. The meadow and the sky changed places. She struggled t
o rise, but her front legs wouldn’t work.
Dimly, the female was aware of two-legged creatures with long black hair closing on her, and of their excited jabber. She raised her head and snarled at one and he held a bent limb and a feathered shaft toward her. A barbed tip was close to her eye. She tried to bite him.
A vast blackness consumed her.
Part Two
The Call of the Family
Chapter Four
The whites called them Sheepeater Indians because they ate a lot of mountain sheep. They also ate a lot of elk and deer and whatever else they could kill and forage, but the white name stuck.
They called themselves the Tukaduka. In the white tongue it meant “people of the high places.” They preferred the high parks and valleys to the flatlands and low valleys and seldom drifted down from the heights.
Other tribes considered them poor. They did not have horses. They did not have buffalo-hide lodges. They did not have white guns or white blankets or white pots and pans. They did not have white knives or white sewing needles or any of the other thousand and one things the whites had that the other tribes craved. But that was fine by the Tukaduka. They did not envy the whites their many goods. They did not desire to be rich as the other tribes saw rich to be.
To the Tukaduka, richness lay in the simple life. Getting along with others was valued more than all else, even white guns. Devotion to family meant more than white knives or sewing needles. Their families, the whites would say, were everything to them.
They did not live in villages. Each family had its own valley or park and dwelled in perfect contentment. It was true that at times they went hungry. It was true that the icy cold of winter was hard and sometimes cost lives. But they were happy, and to the Tukaduka being happy was the reason Coyote had brought them into the world.
War parties from other tribes left them alone. Counting coup on the Tukaduka, the other tribes believed, was as easy as plucking grass. It was insulting for a Piegan or a Blackfoot to boast of killing one. The Tukaduka were regarded as meek and weak as the sheep the whites named them after.
So the Sheepeaters lived quiet, simple lives, and went about their daily tasks at peace with the other tribes and the world around them.
Two Knives was a father of three. His family dwelled in a small valley watered by a gurgling stream high near the Divide. He had seen white men only twice. The first time it had been a party of trappers who stopped in the valley for the night. They were after beaver. Two Knives told them there were none in his valley, but they didn’t believe him until they had scoured the banks of the stream from one end of the valley to the other. One night two of them got drunk and tried to force themselves on Dove Sings. That angered Two Knives greatly. He was not big enough or strong enough to fight them, but fortunately another white man thought it wrong and stopped them.
The second time had been better. A lone white man with hair like snow stopped for a night. He shared his supper and was kind and smiling. Two Knives liked him a lot and could not understand why other Indians had given the white man the name Wolverine. The man had been as peaceful as the birds that Dove Sings was named after.
Much of what the white man said, Two Knives did not understand. The man had something called a “book,” which he recited with a flourish of his hands and arms. It amused Dove Sings greatly. Two Knives had been considerably surprised when Wolverine told him that the whites kept much of their learning and their wisdom in those “books.” Two Knives always thought that learning and wisdom were best kept inside a person.
Even to this day Two Knives occasionally remembered Wolverine and wondered what became of him. Wolverine had been good and decent, qualities Two Knives admired more than any others.
That had been many winters ago, when the oldest of their children was a baby. By now Fox Tail had lived nearly twenty winters and would soon take a wife of his own and move away. Two Knives was not looking forward to that. He would miss his oldest son dearly. He loved his other two children just as much, but it was always hard on the heart when a dear one left.
Otherwise, all was well with their world. Their lodge, made of pine boughs and brush, was spacious enough that they weren’t cramped. Each evening the five of them sat around the small fire and talked. On this particular evening their eyelids were heavy with the need for sleep. Soon they would turn in.
Elk Running, the middle child, was telling them about how he had nearly caught a fish in a pool with his hands. The fish had proved too quick, and he had slipped and fallen in, and they were smiling and laughing when they all heard the shriek. It pierced the valley like a knife thrust, silencing the coyotes and the owls, and silencing all of them, as well. They sat frozen in surprise as the shriek wavered on the wind and gradually faded.
“One of the big cats,” Dove Sings said.
“It is looking for a mate,” Two Knives guessed. “By morning it will be gone.”
“I hope so,” little Bright Rainbow said. “That scared me.”
Dove Sings took their youngest onto her lap and smoothed her hair, comforting her. “The big cats do not bother us if we do not bother them. We will be fine.”
Two Knives said, “It is the brown bears you must watch out for. When you see one, climb a tree as high as you can climb.”
“I am not afraid of them,” Elk Running declared.
“You should be.” Two Knives had lost a cousin to a brown bear. His cousin lingered for days with half his face bitten off and half his chest torn to ribbons. Two Knives’s secret fear was that one day a brown bear would catch him as it had his luckless cousin.
“I will look for sign tomorrow,” Fox Tail announced.
“The cat will be gone,” Two Knives stressed.
“I will look anyway. It is not often we find cat sign.”
Two Knives was proud of his oldest’s tracking skill. His son would sometimes spend half a day tracking an animal for the fun of tracking. “Be careful.”
“I am always careful,” Fox Tail said.
The next morning started like any other. They were up at the first blush of dawn. Dove Sings made a breakfast of grouse eggs and strips of sheep meat. Fox Tail took his bow and quiver and went off to search for sign of the big cat.
Two Knives spent the morning helping Dove Sings cure a deer hide. Unlike some of the other tribes, the Tukaduka did not think it beneath a man’s dignity to do what other tribes called “women’s work.” He and Dove Sings did nearly everything together. Sometimes he even cooked their meals.
The sun was at its highest when Dove Sings looked up and remarked, “He should have been back by now.”
Two Knives did not need to ask who she was talking about. Elk Running was over by the stream with Bright Rainbow. “The cat was high up. Fox Tail could spend most of the day looking and not find anything.” The big cats did not leave a lot of sign as other animals did; they were too stealthy, too secretive.
“I wish he had not gone.”
“You are worried?”
“Yes. Here.” Dove Sings touched her bosom over her heart.
“I will go look for him.”
“No,” Dove Sings said. “You are probably right. The cat is gone and he is safe and I worry over nothing. I would rather you stay here with us.”
“As you want.” But now Two Knives was worried. His wife often had feelings she could not account for that turned out to be right. He spent the rest of the afternoon constantly glancing at the forested slopes that rimmed their valley and were in turn capped by ramparts of stone or in the case of the highest peaks, by cones and spires of glistening snow.
The sun was low on the horizon when Elk Running came to him and asked, “Shouldn’t Fox Tail have been back by now?”
“It could be your brother found sign and followed it,” Two Knives suggested. He did not mention that Fox Tail knew better than to be abroad after dark. The Tukaduka were never abroad after dark.
“Fox Tail is strong and brave. Maybe he will slay the cat and bring us th
e hide.”
“Maybe,” Two Knives said.
Dusk settled over their valley. They ate supper and sat around the fire, all of them quiet, and listened. Coyotes yipped and a wolf howled and near their lodge an owl hooted.
“Fox Tail would never be gone this long.” Dove Sings voiced what was on all their minds.
“I will look for him in the morning,” Two Knives said.
He did not sleep well. Nor did his wife. Usually they slept cuddled together, but on this night they turned and tossed and for long stretches he lay on his back and stared at the empty air, worried. He was up much earlier than was his wont, and dressed and went out. The brisk chill made him shiver. He gazed at the stars and out over the valley, and frowned.
A doeskin dress whispered, and Dove Sings was beside him. “Something has happened to him.”
“I think so, yes,” Two Knives admitted.
“You should not go alone. Take Elk Running.”
“Bright Rainbow and you should not be alone.”
“I can use a bow, and I have my knife.”
“I want him to stay with you,” Two Knives insisted. He seldom forced his will on her, but in this he was firm.
Dove Sings took his hand in hers. “We have lived many winters together. I would not like to live a winter alone.”
Two Knives smiled. “I am not a Shoshone. I do not test my manhood with my courage.”
“I will not sleep until you return.”
His stomach was in no shape for breakfast. He left shortly after sunup armed with his small bow and short arrows and a pair of flint knives. Dove Sings filled a pouch with dried deer meat, and he slanted the strap across his chest. She and Elk Running and Bright Rainbow stood and watched him jog off. He looked back at them right before he entered the trees, and Dove Sings waved. He waved to them.
The forest was eerily quiet. Normally birds warbled and squirrels chattered, but today not a single chirp or chitter broke the stillness. Even the wind had died and the trees were motionless and foreboding.
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