The Elk-Dog Heritage

by Don Coldsmith

  “Stop!” commanded Heads Off firmly. Why, he wondered momentarily, had he ever consented to this office? “There will be no such talk! There is no question of courage. Sees Far,” he indicated the other warrior, “was with the bowmen at the Great Battle.”

  “Where were you, Badger?” the soft chuckling voice of Coyote interrupted.

  Badger, of course, had not yet come of manhood two seasons ago at the time of the battle. Coyote knew this full well, but used the ruse to discredit the young warrior before the council. There was a general chuckle around the circle, and Badger shot a furious look at the speaker. Coyote shrugged innocently and said nothing.

  Another of the Bowstrings spoke, after receiving the chief’s nod.

  “My chief, it seems the council should make some laws about this, as we do about hunting when the season is poor.”

  There were many nods of agreement, and a discussion followed. At length, the matter was resolved, though not to the satisfaction of the young dissenters.

  Though not actually taboo, the undertaking of a war party was to be only with the knowledge of the chief and his advisers. To ensure this, they must have the vision of the medicine man, and his assurance of success. A war party of any size without this implied consent was to be considered in violation of the law.

  The voting members of the council were in unanimous agreement on the new rules. There were those, however, who did not fail to note the sneers on the faces of some of the red-painted youths. They were sullen and silent, and Coyote doubted their cooperation.

  One further matter was discussed, that of enforcement. It had always been the responsibility of the Warrior Society to enforce the law. Now, with more than one society, who would be the internal police force?

  After much discussion, it was decided that the Bowstrings were to assume the function. They were the older, more stable group. Offenders were more likely to respect the age and experience of an older warrior than one of the young Elk-dog warriors.

  It could easily be argued the other way, Heads Off thought uneasily. There was much to be said for social pressure from one’s peers. Still, the problem seemed settled for now. He devoutly hoped that the sullen, withdrawn looks of anger on the red-smeared faces were temporary. He would not have wagered on it.

  Coyote noticed with some apprehension another fact, as the council broke up. Several younger boys, not yet warriors, were hanging admiringly around those with the painted faces. To his great disappointment, he saw that one of these starry-eyed admirers was the son of Sees Far, one of those who had been called cowards.

  No good could come of this.

  3

  For some time it appeared that the young rebels had quieted and become cooperative. Badger and his friends were careful to ask the official ceremony of the medicine man before starting on a hunt. Apparently their medicine was good. They were successful at the hunting, and their lodges were well supplied.

  The more moderate faction of the band began to relax somewhat. Even Heads Off hoped that these had been merely exuberant youths, who were now returning to the ways of their elders.

  Coyote, however, still had a lingering, gnawing doubt. There were things which bothered him, and Coyote, above all, knew how to read people. Those of the People with little insight considered the little man an object of humor, a buffoon. The more perceptive of the tribe saw him for what he was. With his shrewd mind and wit, Coyote had always been respected by the chiefs in council. The disarming, chuckling little coyote-like laugh, which had earned him his name, could cover the most serious of manipulations in the politics of the tribe. As wise old White Buffalo had once remarked, Coyote was able to lead without appearing to do so.

  Just now he was disturbed about the young rebels. True, they seemed to be conforming, but there were questionable factors. All their hunts were with their own group. Of course, a man traditionally hunted with his friends. No harm in that. But every time? Coyote had noticed that the members of Badger’s loosely organized group repeatedly turned down invitations to hunt with other hunters of the band. In fact, as time went on, the young followers of Badger seemed to become even more cohesive. Secretive, almost, thought Coyote. Yet they had broken no rules of the council. The precise dictum of the law was being obeyed, and no enforcement by the Bowstring Society was necessary.

  There were annoying and worrisome things afoot, however. The members of Badger’s group continued to blood themselves after every successful hunt. It became commonplace to see the young men returning from a buffalo hunt with faces smeared with crimson. Their songs of success were always loud and arrogant, full of boasting. Some people were referring to them as the “bloods” in a derogatory way.

  Strangely, the group adopted this name for themselves. Just as their leader had taken for his own the disparaging term “badger,” now his group took with pride the name “Blood Society.”

  Some of the elders of the band tried to convince themselves that here was a group of youths merely holding strongly to the proven ceremonial rituals of the ancestors. Coyote suspected more. He believed there was more ritual taking place, some of it in secret. The rebels had given up too easily. Their entire attitude was wrong. Instead of quiet obedience, there was this constant arrogance, a restless, ambitious self-esteem.

  And then there were their dances. The Bloods celebrated after every hunt, even when there was little apparent cause. There were the songs and reenactment of the hunt, then dances recalling other hunts, and always the final act, the story of the controversial killing of the Head Splitters. The Bloods seemed to brandish this reenactment in the faces of the rest of the People. There was a certain defiance of authority in the reenactment of this event which had caused their censure.

  Coyote must, he decided, talk to White Buffalo. Together, they could approach Heads Off if it appeared some action was necessary. It was unfortunate that the chief, with his upbringing far away, would not notice the subtleties of variant behavior such as this.

  Coyote sauntered through the village toward the medicine man’s lodge. He glanced toward the river, to the meadow where the youngsters of the Rabbit Society were receiving instruction. The warriors demonstrating the lessons were Standing Bird and Coyote’s own son, Long Elk. He decided to watch for a while, turning aside from the path to walk to the meadow. Long Elk waved to him and came to meet him.

  “No, no,” insisted Coyote. “Go on.”

  Long Elk shook his head.

  “We are nearly ready to stop,” he said. “Wait for me a little.”

  The smaller children were practicing with throwing sticks or bow and arrow. Older youths on horseback were using the lance under Standing Bird’s instruction. Coyote watched a young man make a good run at a willow hoop target, threading the circle neatly with his lance. It seemed such a short while since Coyote had first seen a buffalo killed in this manner. Heads Off had been a stranger then, and his control over the elk-dog seemed little short of a miracle. Now every young man of the People received instruction in the elk-dog medicine. Aiee, in other ways it now seemed that this had always been the way of the People.

  Long Elk now dismissed his young charges and returned to where his father sat.

  “Does it go well, my son?”

  The young warrior squatted and shrugged.

  “Well enough,” he replied vaguely. Something was troubling him. Coyote remained silent.

  “Father, did you know that some of the young men are taking instruction from Badger?”

  This was no earthshaking news. The loosely organized educational system, the Rabbit Society, provided for instruction by almost any of the warriors who were so inclined. Most men spent some time with the children, where both boys and girls learned the use of weapons, and the athletic skills of running, jumping, and swimming.

  Coyote waited, knowing he would hear more.

  “Standing Bird and I believe Badger takes them on the hunt before they are ready.”

  If that were the only problem, thought Coyote. The e
ntire matter was taking on a more ominous tone. If the impression of these young warriors was correct, then Badger might be actively seeking recruits for the Blood Society. The rebel group might be much more organized than he had thought. He must talk with White Buffalo.

  Coyote visited a short while with the young men, and casually resumed his walk to the medicine man’s lodge. He had not mentioned his suspicions.

  White Buffalo was smoking in front of his lodge, and waved the invitation to sit. Coyote complied, and filled his own pipe. Crow Woman, the medicine man’s wife, brought a burning twig to ignite the leafy mixture, and the two men smoked in silence for a time. They were friends of long standing, despite a considerable difference in ages. At one time White Buffalo had hoped that young Coyote might become his apprentice. He and Crow Woman had been unable to have children, so there was no son to carry on the position of medicine man. This had become a matter of considerable worry to him in recent seasons. None of the young men seemed interested. And, now there was this other matter, that of Badger. How could he voice his suspicions to Coyote?

  In the end it was Coyote who broached the subject.

  “Uncle,” he began, using the People’s term of respect for any adult male, “I would speak of the Bloods.”

  Surprised, the medicine man answered, “Yes, I, too.”

  They discussed their mutual fears and suspicions. There was really little to discuss, merely the uneasy feeling. For the medicine man, it was mostly a matter of reading attitude. Although the Bloods went through the ceremonial preparation for the hunt, their attitude was jocular and mocking. They were arrogant and insulting to the old medicine man, very demanding in their requests for the visions. So far he had been able to comply with their requests, but he wondered. What would happen on the day when he would have to advise against the hunt?

  White Buffalo had also noticed another thing Coyote had overlooked. At the dances in celebration of the hunt, there were women participating.

  Warrior sisters! This too implied a well-organized warrior society. The young women of the society would remain celibate as long as they held status as warrior sisters, but could resign to marry at any time. It was a position of honor, requiring knowledge of the society’s ceremonials and active participation in the rituals.

  The alarming fact here was that if Badger’s Blood Society had now included warrior sisters, it must have immense influence with the young people. The vows of a warrior sister were not to be taken lightly.

  This added evidence of the prestige of the illicit warrior society was sobering to the two men. Though nothing definite had happened yet, they must make Heads Off aware of their observations.

  They rose and walked toward the lodge of the chief.

  4

  The two men found that their chief was not completely unaware of the undercurrents in the band. Though he might be a newcomer to the ageless customs of the People, Heads Off was a shrewd observer. He had sensed the tension behind the defiant attitude of the Blood Society. He had, in fact, discussed the matter at length with Tall One as they lay close in the warmth of their sleeping robes.

  Coyote was much relieved to be able to share the burden of his knowledge, and the three men talked at great length. White Buffalo was convinced that a warning to Badger and his friends would be in order. Still, they had broken no rules. There was nothing to criticize. It was a matter of attitude. And, if one says his attitude is good, and he has broken no rules, who is to call him liar?

  After discussion at great length, it was agreed that there was nothing to be done. In fact, the less talk the better. However, it would be important to watch carefully for any infractions or open defiance of the laws of the People.

  The summer moved on, through the Moon of Thunder and the Red Moon. It was nearly the Moon of Hunting before the next incident occurred.

  Badger and a handful of the young Bloods were on one of their frequent hunts. These expeditions were not productive of much in the way of game. The young men did continue to ask the visions of White Buffalo before the hunt, but they were apparently ranging far and ignoring good hunting nearby. If they were hunting, Coyote thought grimly, it was not buffalo that they sought.

  Thus, it was no great surprise when the small group of Bloods returned to the band after a three-day absence, without meat, but minus one horse. A severely wounded youth slumped behind one of the other riders, and still another showed minor injuries. One of the other horses limped from an arrow wound in the fleshy part of the hip.

  Excitement rippled through the camp, and word of a council passed immediately. It was a foregone conclusion that the main purpose of the council would be to discipline the miscreants. Yet, despite this common knowledge, the Bloods continued to behave as if they were heroes.

  From the standpoint of the chief, the council that evening was completely unsatisfactory. Neither Heads Off nor even the wily Coyote was able to entrap the young warriors into an admission that they had done anything wrong. They had merely been on a buffalo hunt, with approval of the medicine man. White Buffalo grudgingly acknowledged that this was true.

  It was no fault of the innocent hunters, Badger insisted, that they had encountered a superior force of the enemy. They were lucky to escape with their lives. Still, Badger seemed to take far too much glory in the details of the fight. They had killed one of the Head Splitters and severely wounded another in the skirmish.

  The council adjourned without action on the incident. There was none to take. The Bloods had still broken no rules of the council, and their account of the circumstances of the fight must be respected.

  The Bloods immediately began a victory dance in celebration, much to the disgust of Heads Off.

  Coyote was preoccupied with observing the ceremony. Someone had brought a drum and people began to gather as one of the girls tapped a rhythmic beat with the dogwood beater. The warriors of the Blood Society began the dance, stepping, singing, reenacting not only this but previous skirmishes with the enemy. Each had painted the now familiar broad band of crimson across his forehead.

  The ceremony lasted nearly till dawn, and for Heads Off there was little sleep. He, as well as Coyote, had seen the looks of admiration on the faces of the younger boys. The children growing up must not be allowed to idolize these deviant young rebels. And, Heads Off thought in despair, there was so little that could be done about it. Even Coyote, who usually had suggestions, seemed at a loss. The thing was tearing the People apart. It was alienating father from son. Heads Off, as well as Coyote, had noticed as the council broke up, that the young son of Sees Far again followed the Bloods with an almost worshiping gaze. That honored warrior, in turn, seemed so filled with pent-up rage that it appeared for a moment that he would physically attack Badger. How can a man react when he sees his son following the wrong path?

  At least, Heads Off thought to himself as he turned restlessly on his robes, the boy is not quite old enough to ride with the Bloods. Maybe something will happen for the best. He did not actually believe it.

  Toward morning, the distant thump of the drum was becoming tired and slow. The diminishing vigor of the song was replaced by another sound from a distant part of the camp.

  It started as a low wail, rising in volume and pitch, moaning and grating on the ear of the listener as it grew. Heads Off recognized the sound, although he would have preferred to ignore it. The unnerving wail was the Mourning Song of the People. It came from the far side of the encampment, and the chief knew without investigating from whose lodge it came.

  Bird Woman had been widowed in the Great Battle. With the help of her brother, Sees Far, she had maintained her lodge as Fox Walking, her oldest son, came of age. She had staked her entire future on the young man, and many had been distressed when he had followed Badger and the Bloods. Now he had been severely wounded in the skirmish of the day. The wail from the distant lodge could mean only one thing. Fox Walking was dead.

  Heads Off turned miserably, frustrated at his inability to take any
action. Tall One placed a comforting arm across his chest and snuggled close, wanting to help, but equally frustrated. The girl did not fully realize how very important her mere presence was to the troubled young chief.

  5

  Some relief from the internal pressures of the band was provided by the annual move into winter camp. Heads Off was thankful for any distraction at this time.

  Stone Breaker, the weapons maker, had requested that they move by way of the flint quarry. They could replenish supplies of the scarce commodity, and still move into the desirable area for wintering before the Moon of Falling Leaves. The suggestion seemed a good one. Within three suns the Elk-dog band was on the move.

  The chief was concerned about the attitude of Sees Far. That warrior was brooding, with a black sullen hate, over the death of his nephew. He had forbidden his son, Yellow Bird, to associate with Badger and the Blood Society. This naturally resulted in defiance on the part of the boy. The entire band was aware that the youngster still covertly followed the Bloods.

  Heads Off again discussed the possibilities with Coyote, and neither saw a solution.

  “It is like the river where it comes near the falls,” Coyote said grimly. “The water moves slowly at first, then faster and faster.”

  The young chief nodded grimly, agreeing with the analogy. Unfortunately, there was an unspoken extension of the same mental picture. The water must inescapably be pulled over the edge, to fall crashing on the rocks below.

  The temporary stop at the flint quarry was profitable. Near the head of a sheltered pocket in the rolling prairie was an outcrop of white stone. The entire area was dotted with ledges and protrusions of this sort, jutting horizontally from the lush green hillsides. On the surface of these stones could often be seen the outlines of small aquatic creatures, snails, and water plants. These fossil impressions in the limestone were a matter of curiosity to the People, but the valuable significance was of a more practical nature. Here and there, sheltered by overhanging white stone, were veins of hard blue-gray flint. Some of the better quarries had been worked for centuries. At the site now visited by the People, the horizontal layer of the precious stone was only a hand’s span in thickness. Its breadth and depth were unknown, but a deep layer of rejected chips shifted underfoot as one approached the place. The vein of flint had been used by many tribes for many generations.