Flight of the Hawk: The Plains

by W. Michael Gear

  Gray Bear’s grandfather had been a boy the last time the trap was used. Now the drive lines were falling apart, the timber fencing between the cairns mostly rotted. He wondered if any of the Kuchendukani, being horse people, still had the knowledge, patience, and skill that the old buffalo runners had. Those young men had dedicated their lives to studying the bison. They had known how to work an entire herd, putting pressure here, easing them there. They used their perfectly trained dogs to maneuver the mass of animals. Never enough to stampede or frighten the lead cows, but just enough to nudge the herd in one direction or another.

  And all the time, a puhagan—his souls set free by spirit plants, fasting, and prayer—would sing from a high place, communing with the souls of the bison.

  These days bison hunting was done from horses. At speed. With animals left scattered far and wide. Butchering took place all over the plains, conducted by people in ones and twos. To Gray Bear’s way of thinking, it was careless and inefficient compared to the old buffalo trap. There, the entire village set up on the site, butchering their way down until the meat soured. An entire winter’s kill in one spot: efficient.

  So many changes.

  Gray Bear contemplated this. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to relax. They had been on the trail now for a full quarter moon. Seven long days.

  Bellies were gaunt, tempers short, and the horses worn. Time for a well-earned rest. Besides, Tylor and Cunningham had shot a couple of antelope with their rifles. Two banging shots. The antelope had run no more than a hundred paces before falling.

  Gray Bear sat with his back to a young bur oak, periodically staring at the hawk, now perched atop a branch on a conveniently fallen tree. The bird was tied but seemed content to sit in his lordly spot and survey the camp.

  Gray Bear ran reverent fingers down the smooth wood of his rifle and remembered the feeling as he had shot it. Fire had flashed before his eyes, and the gun had spoken. The thing had bucked against his shoulder like it was alive. Better, through the fire and smoke he’d seen the dirt jump. Knew he’d hit the patch of white that was the target. He’d dug the flattened ball from the soil.

  “Always recover yer lead if’n ye can, coon,” Cunningham had told him. “Ye can melt it down, shoot it again.”

  Much like an arrow could be reused.

  They all understood Cunningham’s lessons now. His insistence that they wait. Why he had made them practice “flashing the pan.” They had learned to ignore the fountain of fire. To hold steady until the bang.

  Gray Bear sniffed as the scent of baking antelope came to his nostrils. They had seventeen hungry people and two antelope. Many of the others were out collecting berries along the river, some digging for roots, others seeking any game that might fall to their rabbit sticks or flung stones.

  Across from him, John Tylor was cleaning his rifle, using the ramrod and bits of wet cloth to scrub the black sulfur-smelling soot from the inside of the tube.

  Guns, like a good bow, needed to be taken care of in order to make them last.

  Tylor was something of a problem. The Taipo didn’t know it, but he’d had the entire band in an uproar. Had they not been running for their lives, it would have exploded like steam from a geyser. Ignorantly, the Taipo had ridden along for the entire journey, missing the barbed remarks, the catcalls, and the derisive jokes at his expense.

  Whether he had intended to or not, Tylor had asked Singing Lark to marry him. That wouldn’t have been a problem except that most of the people had still considered her a girl. Men didn’t marry girls. But Singing Lark had been a woman at the time. She just hadn’t bothered to announce that fact. Yet. Which meant that John Tylor hadn’t committed a breach of etiquette by asking a girl to marry him. She’d been a woman. A fact no one had known.

  The upshot was that as his band had traveled along, Gray Bear and Aspen Branch had quietly informed everyone about Singing Lark’s status. Which, of course, made everybody mad and left them feeling duped that Singing Lark had misled them.

  So Gray Bear had explained why the young woman had wanted to keep her status secret. Had taken it upon himself to accept the blame, saying he had agreed because he wanted her to stay a scout. But that he hadn’t known a stupid Taipo would ask the girl, um, woman, to marry him.

  Before the coming of the Taipo, it would have been a major issue and the topic of a great deal of drama.

  Now, with the Taipo traveling among them, not to mention Cunningham’s obvious interest in the just as obviously uninterested Whistling Wren, no one said a thing about forcing Singing Lark to change her behavior and accept the responsibilities of womanhood.

  Somehow, Gray Bear had kept a lid on it. Barely.

  He shook his head. “When I am old and all my teeth have fallen out, I am going to laugh about this.”

  He was thinking this when Singing Lark appeared, slipping between the shadows of the bur oak. She came at a trot, a curved rabbit stick in one hand, a collection of three sharp-tailed grouse gripped by the feet and hanging from her other hand.

  The hawk watched her with keen yellow eyes. The bird always got fed when game was brought in. To ensure no one forgot this practice Hawk issued a grating shriek of anticipation.

  John Tylor looked up from where he was cleaning his rifle on the other side of the camp, his expression oddly pained, as if he hurt and didn’t know what to do about it.

  Singing Lark tarried only long enough to place her feet, one by one, on the grouses’ wings, grab the birds by the shanks, and jerk. The action ripped the birds in two, exposing the guts. Plucking out the hearts, livers, and gizzards, she threw what was left to the screaming hawk. As the bird gulped down the entrails, Singing Lark flopped down beside Gray Bear.

  “Got three. Two got away.” She indicated the grouse. “I think we should pack them in mud, toss them in the coals to bake overnight. Be a good addition for the morning meal.”

  “You look preoccupied, white man’s wife.”

  She gave him a look of disgusted rebuke.

  Gray Bear arched an eyebrow. “Do you think that maybe you should go talk to him? Tell him that you understand that he didn’t mean to ask you to marry him? Make peace?”

  “He hasn’t done anything since.” She was staring at her hands, stained as they were with grouse blood.

  “Meaning?”

  “A man should do something. Everyone knows that.”

  “Maybe Taipo don’t. What are you trying to tell me?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes, I am a woman now. Everyone knows. If John Tylor hadn’t asked me to marry him—”

  “That was a misunderstanding.”

  “—by now Red Moon Man or Walks Too Fast would have come asking me themselves.”

  “They are both good men.”

  “Kestrel Wing is still grieving over his wife’s murder by the Pa’kiani. Walks Too Fast can’t think beyond the next meal. Being married to Red Moon Man would be as exciting as being married to a juniper tree.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  She gave him a thoughtful glance from those large eyes. “My parents are dead. You are chief.”

  “Why don’t you ask Aspen Branch?”

  “She says I should marry John Tylor. Thinks he’d be a kind and caring man. Says his souls are all good, and that I would be cherished. Like he said that day, that he’d take care of me like no Newe man ever would.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a Taipo!” she cried. “He has hair on his face! His skin reminds me of a . . . a fish’s. Do I want such sick-looking skin rubbing against mine? And he’s, well, really stupid. He does the dumbest things. If he just showed the simplest of courtesy.”

  “I was in his people’s post, as they call it. We were there just long enough that I could tell they thought we were ill-mannered and rude, and really stupid. Cunningham spoke for us. Without him, we would have walked away with nothing.” He fixed on her eyes. “The point I am trying to make is that people have differe
nt ways of behaving. John Tylor might act inconsiderate at times, but he is not trying to.”

  “Then why doesn’t he either tell me he no longer wants me as a wife, or offer me a token of his interest? A man who wants a woman to marry him should give her a gift. Everyone knows the value of the gift a man offers is symbolic of how much he values the woman he wants to marry.”

  “First, Tylor worries about your age. He has concerns that you might be too much a girl. That you are not a woman in all ways. You should respect that. Like us, he believes a man should not engage in yokog with a girl. Second, if you were so against it, why don’t you tell him no in front of others? Hmm? Or is he right, and you are still a girl playing a game?”

  She made a face. “If he just wasn’t a Taipo.”

  “You saw him when the Sa’idika would have robbed and murdered him. The man is brave, and he’s a warrior. He killed one, counted coup on two others. Hard to say he’s not a good hunter when we’re eating his antelope. Can’t say he’s lazy or can’t provide. Not to mention that he’s rich. So, do you enjoy his company?”

  She nodded, brow pinched. “Before he asked me to marry him, I enjoyed him. He’s honest. It’s . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s like everything is new to him. Like each thing he learns is a revelation. Like he has just discovered some hidden and special surprise.”

  “And you like that?”

  She pulled her knee up, propping her chin as she stared across the camp to where Tylor was studiously ignoring her. The man seemed uncommonly preoccupied with his rifle. The hawk, now full of grouse guts, kept glancing between the two of them as if some drama were playing out.

  “I don’t want to be a woman,” she told him. “Life is a lot easier as a girl.”

  Gray Bear laughed. “Ah, so you would flout all of our accepted and expected behaviors. Rudely ignore the proper role of being a responsible woman and act like a Taipo who didn’t know any better?”

  “I’m trapped.”

  “Only if you want to be. People are just people. They always expect you to be someone you may not want to be. Think I wanted to be taikwahni?”

  “You are a very good one. Everyone says so.”

  “Then maybe . . .” He didn’t finish the thought as John Tylor placed his rifle, the one he called “Jack Handle”—whatever that was—to the side. He stood, looking self-conscious. The man took a deep breath, came walking straight for where Gray Bear and Singing Lark sat.

  Beside him, the young woman froze.

  Tylor walked up, laughed as if amused at himself, and said, “Denito’a Hittoo,” taking a stab at Singing Lark’s Shoshoni name, “Taikwahni.”

  “John Tylor,” Gray Bear said back.

  “Singing Lark,” Tylor used signs to fill in the words, “I am sorry that I have caused you discomfort. I would make it right. If you and the chief would come with me, I’d like to offer you a gift. Something to show you that I didn’t mean to hurt you and offer you my heart in its right place.”

  Gray Bear blinked, wondering if he’d gotten the translation right.

  “You are offering me your heart?” Singing Lark asked, astonished, forgetting to sign.

  “Ha’a,” Tylor told her. Yes.

  She got warily to her feet, shot an unsure glance at Gray Bear, and followed Tylor across the camp to the Taipo packs. All the goods, tobacco, the cloth, the needles and beads were arranged on the spread manty. The rifles had been set out to one side and gleamed in the sunlight.

  She’d seen the remarkable goods before, fingered the fine red cloth, ran her fingers over the hanks of remarkable beads, felt how sharp the iron awls were.

  “Choose anything,” Tylor said, signing to make sure she understood. “I give you horse if I had one. I just want you happy to make.” He frowned. “With me.”

  Gray Bear wondered, “Tylor, you know what you’re doing?”

  Tylor launched into some complicated explanation, failing to sign. The Taipo words were too much to follow. But the man sounded so sincere.

  Singing Lark, her face gone pale, looked up at John Tylor, her expression almost beseeching. “Anything?”

  “Anything,” Tylor asserted with a positive sign. In broken Shoshoni, he said, “Whatever . . . you need . . . to take . . . for me to have.”

  “If you take this . . .” Gray Bear warned.

  Singing Lark stood in silence, her brow furrowed in deep thought. “What we were just saying? About people. About not having a choice. The Newe will make me a woman. They’ll know when my next hunni comes. I won’t be able to hide it.”

  “It’s not like you have a penis and testicles down there to give you a choice.”

  She chuckled at that. “I suppose not. I heard you say the other day that our world is changed.”

  “Tell me it isn’t.”

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped over, picking one of the rifles off the magical waterproof Taipo cloth. She lifted it, turned, and with a happy smile said, “Yes. I choose the aitta for my wedding gift.”

  To John Tylor, she said, “I accept your proposal. I take you as my husband, and from this day on will live in your lodge. I call you gwee and you call me kwee. Let it be known to all, John Tylor, that we are nanakweennewe.”

  “What just happened?” Tylor asked. “What’s that last? Nanakwee something? Tell me that doesn’t mean”—he winced—“what I think it means.”

  Gray Bear sighed, wondering what consternation this was going to cause. Singing Lark had married a Taipo. He’d given her one of the people’s rifles. Worse, Gray Bear suspected the clueless Tylor had no idea what he’d just done.

  Taking the man’s hand—and prying one of Singing Lark’s from the rifle—he carefully fitted their reluctant fingers together, interlocking them.

  The look on Tylor’s face might have been the same if he’d swallowed a prickly pear. Singing Lark just looked terrified.

  CHAPTER 20

  How did this happen to me? And worse, What do I do about it?

  Tylor stared down at his fingers where they interlocked with Singing Lark’s. Hers were cold, stained with blood, but supple, and tightened in his. Her grip was firm, committed. He wouldn’t have been more stunned if he’d been hit in the head with a club.

  Through that first miscommunication, she thought he’d asked to marry her. In the Indian trade, when a mistake was made, a gift was given in restitution. Now, somehow, through some additional inadvertent error, she and Gray Bear had taken the giving of the gift as bride price.

  What are you going to do, John? Say, “Hell no!”

  That might be a deadly insult.

  Might get him and Cunningham killed.

  Worse, what would it do to Singing Lark? She’d taken the rifle, obviously agreed to the marriage, unintended as it was. If he spurned her now, it would be an irreparable act. She’d hate him.

  And it might get him and Cunningham killed.

  Wait. Don’t make things worse.

  Tylor stared down at the slim brown fingers interlaced in his, at the girl standing beside him, her eyes now filled with unease. She looked as worried about it as he was. And then a resignation filled her gaze, and she laughed, tightening her fingers in his.

  “Glad you find this funny,” he told her, a slow smile coming to his lips. “I guess I couldn’t make it any worse.”

  His thoughts kept coming back to that part about not getting him and Cunningham killed.

  Gray Bear said something to Singing Lark, indicating the rifle.

  She replied in a sassy tone of voice.

  Gray Bear threw his hands up, muttering to himself as he stalked back to his tree, resettled himself in the sunlight, and retrieved his rifle. The chief had a thoughtful look on his face as he went back to inspecting its fine lines.

  “What was that?” Tylor asked.

  “You make trade for rifle.” She met his gaze from under an arched brow. “Anything? I choose.”

  He felt his gut si
nk. Technically the gun belonged to the Shoshoni. It was trade for their hides. Somehow, she’d thought he had included the gun when he told her “anything.” So, now he was indebted to the Shoshoni for the worth of the gun? But, she, herself, was one of the Shoshoni. Her work had gone into the accruing, tanning, and finishing of the hides. How did that work?

  “One thing at a time,” he told himself.

  He glanced at the hawk where it sat on its branch. Was it just the light, or did the normally fierce-looking bird look oddly amused? Then its feathers stood out, it lifted its tail, and shot a stream of excrement onto its perch.

  Tylor couldn’t think of a better commentary on his current situation.

  “Come over here,” he told Singing Lark as he turned loose of her hand. “Let’s talk.”

  She gave him a sober look, the gun clasped tightly as she followed and settled onto his blanket next to him. She appeared torn, half of her seemed entranced by the trade rifle with its polished brass work, the waxed grain of the wood, and the gleam of the metal. The other half of her was fixed on him.

  “Gwee.”

  “Husband.” Tylor rubbed his tired face. “And I call you kwee. Wife.” He paused, using his fingers to turn her chin so she had to look at him. Her skin was smooth and soft. “Do you really want this? Nakweettu? To me?” He gestured to his chest. “E’mmi suan?” You want? Thankfully he knew those words.

  Her face was a serious mask, reflecting the thoughts as she wrestled with herself. She started to say something, hesitated, then launched into a string of Shoshoni much too fast and difficult for him. She stopped short, the quiver of self-amused smile teasing her lips.

  She looked away, staring as if into the distance. A sadness reflected in her soft and dark eyes. Her fingers played along the rifle, as if feeling the strangeness of it.

  For once, since this whole mess started, Tylor was smart enough to hold his tongue.

  Both Gray Bear and the hawk were watching him from their various locations in the camp. The hawk could think what he wanted, but what was going on in Gray Bear’s head? That here came this strange Taipo to barge in and beguile a child to take to his bed? It sure as hell would have been awkward if some Indian waltzed into a white community and “married” a little blond girl.