The Elk-Dog Heritage

by Don Coldsmith

  “The Dog Tooth,” she smiled. “Do you remember, you brought them to me in our first springtime together?”

  He had hoped she would remember, and he was pleased. It had been before the birth of Eagle, before Heads Off had been burdened with the responsibility of leadership. Things had been so much simpler then.

  He sat close to her and they watched the activity in the village below. The appearance was that of a peaceful, prosperous band of the People. Children played, meat was drying on the racks, and skins were stretched to dress and tan. Women called to each other at their work, with occasional laughter.

  Only if the couple on the hill lifted their gaze to the prairie beyond, could they see that all was not as well as it seemed. There they could see the milling, impatient activity of the Head Splitters.

  “They will come again, with more warriors,” the young chief spoke grimly.

  “Of course. But not today.” She snuggled closer against him.

  Heads Off never ceased to be amazed at the manner in which this slim girl could make him completely forget all the problems of his existence. When he was in her arms, nothing else mattered. All was right with the world, and there could be no wrong.

  Later, he sought out his father-in-law.

  “Coyote, how long until they come again?”

  Coyote shrugged. “Maybe three suns, maybe ten. It will be when the others gather. This time they will be very strong.”

  And they were certainly very strong before, thought Heads Off desperately. There had been far more than enough warriors to crush the dwindling Elk-dog band. His defense had worked only because it was so unorthodox, so unexpected. It would not be successful again, and he had no more tricks in mind. At least, the threat of the sharp weapons in the brush barricade would prevent the main attack from coming that way. If only there were some way to make the woods more defensible.

  They established a general line of defense in a zigzag pattern through the thickest part of the timber. At the insistence of the chief, each warrior chose his position, that to which he would hasten when the attack came. Some of the women, too, stated that they would fight beside their men. Piled brush helped to take advantage of natural variations in the terrain.

  A few men would remain at the brush barrier where the horsemen had perished. There was likely to be a diversionary attack there, too.

  Some families selected hiding places for their children, to which they would run when the fatal day came.

  Then, there was nothing to do but wait. Time hung heavy over the People. For some it was a time of quiet, private thoughts. For others, a time of smoking and telling of tales.

  There were those who passed the time in gambling. At several places around the camp area could be seen a cluster of people intent on the roll of plum stones. The painted stones skittered and bounced on spread skins, and much property changed hands in wagers. The gamblers, it seemed, were ever so much more serious in their gaming. In spite of the threat of annihilation that hovered over them, they were intent on the games. Wagers were high, at times most of a man’s possessions riding on the toss of the plum stones. There seemed to be an almost frantic preoccupation with the games of chance.

  Well, why not, thought Heads Off as he walked among the lodges. It may not be that any of us have any possessions in a few suns. When life becomes cheap, property becomes even cheaper.

  More depressing to him, somehow, was the sight of the women, busily engaged in preparing skins for future use. The tedious, long-drawn-out task would eventually produce usable robes, garments, and lodge covers. Despite the fact that there was little likelihood of anyone in the Elk-dog band ever enjoying the use of the end product, the work went on. Women who took great pride in their work continued to dress and scrape hides meticulously.

  Other women worked to construct garments and moccasins that would never be worn. But, the young chief sighed, what else was there to do? All activity would not stop because the future seemed unlikely. He turned back to his own family’s lodge, to encounter the most heart-rending sight of all.

  Tall One sat cross-legged near the doorway of the lodge, sewing ornamental quillwork on a pair of tiny moccasins. She held them up for his inspection.

  “They are for Owl’s First Dance,” she announced proudly.

  A child’s First Dance, at the age of two, was an important step in his life. It was the time of the naming ceremony, when an older relative would choose the name the child would wear until grown. The finest of garments, the most careful of grooming, the most intricate of ornamentation on moccasins were a matter of great pride to the family.

  Now, Tall One worked a complicated and beautiful design with dyed quills into the surface of the tiny shoes. They would truly be objects of beauty. Owl could stand proud in the dance arena in the carefully sewn garments made by his capable mother.

  Except, thought Heads Off dully, except for one thing. For small Owl, chortling there on the robe in the warm spring sunshine, there will be no First Dance.

  By that time, there would be no Elk-dog band.

  28

  If was five suns before the first of the newly arriving Head Splitters came. There were six or seven of them, and they lost no time in circling the camp of the People.

  An arrogant young chief, resplendent in his war paint, charged alone to within a bowshot of the barrier. He pulled his big horse to an openmouthed, sliding stop, while several young warriors of the People hooted in derision.

  Heads Off, however, did not like the serious, businesslike way in which the other looked over the situation. Here was a man who was accustomed to having things go his own way. He apparently intended to see that they did.

  More enemy warriors arrived next day, and still more the next. For several suns, small groups of Head Splitters trickled into the area, to mingle with those already there. They seemed in no hurry, were willing to wait for the proper moment.

  Each morning a handful of enemy warriors, always the same individuals, would ride out and exchange taunts and derision with the young warriors of the People. It seemed a half-hearted, boasting attempt to goad each other into an indiscretion, and was completely unsuccessful.

  Still, the strength and number of the enemy increased. It became evident that there were warriors arriving from several different bands of the Head Splitters. This seemed to indicate that word had spread among that tribe. All who wished vengeance for the defeat in the Great Battle a few seasons back could now gather. It was a deliberate, almost ceremonial preparation that the enemy was now making, for the extermination of the Elk-dog band of the People.

  The Moon of Greening was now nearly past, and the Growing Moon beginning. It was time to start the journey to the Big Council, but no one mentioned that fact. It would have taken most of the Growing Moon to make the move. The tribe would gather at a prearranged site on the Salt River, starting the Sun Dance and Big Council in the Moon of Roses.

  Again, Heads Off thought of the circle of chiefs at the Big Council. There would be an empty space this year, and for all the years to come. It would be pointed out to future generations that the empty place in the circle had been that of the Southern, or Elk-dog band, exterminated long ago by the Head Splitters. There would be a record of the event painted on the Story Skins and preserved in the history of the tribe. It would be remembered for all time as the year the Elk-dog band was killed. Oddly, he wondered how the painters of the skins would depict the scene. Even at such a time, the hope crossed his mind that the Elk-dog people would be portrayed as dying bravely and fittingly. Then he shrugged. What did it matter?

  Heads Off watched the enemy as they moved around their camp from day to day, hunting and practicing with their weapons. Once a party of Head Splitters made a buffalo kill within sight of the People. They made a great exaggerated show of butchering and preparing the succulent hump ribs, knowing that the captive band was near starvation, and subsisting on the tough, stringy meat of the elk-dogs.

  One of the recently arriving groups
of Head Splitters had actually brought their lodges and families with them. Such confidence was beyond belief. It was unheard of to take women and children on a war party. The only explanation, of course, was obvious. The conclusion of the events now approaching was foregone. There was no danger involved, the enemy was saying, in merely exterminating this helpless, starving band of the People. The arrival of the families of Head Splitter warriors meant simply contempt for the beleaguered People.

  There was one slim hope that kept occurring to the young chief. With all the warriors of different bands now gathering, there seemed to be a lack of organization. With his previous military training, this was more obvious to Heads Off than to the others.

  When they had been confronted by only the one enemy band, there had been a semblance of order. The mock charges, the attack that was to have been final, had all been organized and well-disciplined. Now there seemed, at least from this distance, to be mere milling confusion. There appeared to be no directed effort to organization on the part of the enemy.

  Heads Off discussed this with Coyote and a few of the others.

  “I think you are right, Heads Off,” Coyote nodded thoughtfully. “They have lost some strong chiefs in the attack. No one is their main chief now.”

  “How can we use this?”

  There was a long silence, then Long Elk spoke.

  “We could have attacked while they were weak,” he said wistfully.

  “No, they were not that weak. It was too dangerous.” Heads Off was firm.

  They continued to discuss the situation, but could arrive at no conclusion. It would require a major surprise to take advantage of the enemy’s disorganization. Something like an unexpected attack, and the People had simply not enough strength for such a move. They had only a few elk-dogs and a handful of young warriors trained to use the lance on horseback. The only way such a group could be used was in a suicide charge. Then there would be even fewer warriors to withstand the final onslaught. Heads Off refused to consider such a plan.

  In the final event, the enemy was so overwhelmingly superior in numbers and equipment that it would matter little how disorganized they were. What matter if the defenders were sliced efficiently to pieces, or merely crushed in a disorganized trample?

  29

  “Come, my friend,” Coyote was speaking. “Let us go and speak to White Buffalo.”

  The two men threaded through the camp toward the lodge of the medicine man. It was now the most pretentious lodge remaining, the only one of the big lodges constructed in recent years. Heads Off wondered what would happen in the final debacle. Would the lodge of the medicine man fall and be destroyed with the rest, or would the enemy’s strange fear of his medicine spare it again?

  It was entirely possible, he decided, that the enemy would leave the medicine lodge as the only thing standing, and its occupants the only living things on the scene when they departed.

  “Uncle!” Coyote was tapping on the taut lodge skin. “We would speak with you!”

  Crow Woman held aside the door skin and the two stooped to enter. The delicate scent of dried herbs assailed their nostrils as they stepped into the dusky interior and greeted the medicine man. He was seated in the host’s place directly across from the doorway, solemnly smoking. He nodded and motioned them to sit.

  “Uncle,” Coyote began, “we wish to speak of the Head Splitters.”

  White Buffalo nodded again and sat, still not speaking.

  “Could you,” Heads Off spoke at last, “tell us of the coming fight?”

  The old man turned and stared wearily at him for a long moment. Then he sighed, and rose to collect the various accoutrements of the dance that would help his vision. Crow Woman warmed the drum over the fire to tune it, and started the rhythmic beat. The fixed expression on her lined face left no doubt that she considered the situation hopeless.

  Heads Off had always been impressed with the ritualistic dances and visions of the medicine man. To be sure, White Buffalo was an opportunist. The old man was a shrewd observer, watching the actions of animals, birds, and insects, as well as the patterns of the weather. He was acutely aware of human behavior as well. By the use of all the information available to him, White Buffalo’s vision predictions were remarkably accurate.

  Heads Off had sometimes been amused by the way in which the medicine man took credit for fortunate happenings. White Buffalo’s shrewd powers of observation allowed him occasionally to guess the outcome of the course of events, slightly before they were seen by the others. Thus he could foretell or warn and seem to predict correctly things yet to happen.

  These were the thoughts that drifted through the mind of the young chief as they watched the dance. The intricate preparation, the face-painting, the costuming and manipulation of the scep-terlike gourd rattles. But Heads Off, watching the old man, had the feeling that his heart was heavy. White Buffalo, more than anyone, had the insight to see the ultimate outcome of the events in progress.

  Heads Off began to feel sorry for the medicine man. The band had long looked to him for advice. His visions were usually optimistic, sometimes with a warning if necessary. But now, when the conclusion of this siege was clearly to be tragic, what could the medicine man say? There was no way the old man could give an encouraging forecast. Heads Off wondered if it were possible for him to present a bleak vision.

  Possibly White Buffalo was thinking of the same dilemma. There was something of depression and despair in the shuffle of his feet, the slope of the shoulders and swing of the head.

  At last he finished the dance and Crow Woman spread the painted skin on the floor of the lodge. Perhaps it was only in the imagination of the onlookers that the incantation was a little longer and more fervent. White Buffalo made his cast, and bits of bone and wood and pebble skittered and skipped over the surface. As they came to rest, the medicine man began his interpretation.

  “Aiee!” he muttered to himself. He glanced quickly at the others, something akin to excitement and genuine surprise in his face.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  The medicine man seemed puzzled. He poked the bright pebbles gently with a gnarled forefinger, muttering to himself. The suspense was growing intolerable.

  “It is good!” he finally exclaimed, the expression of surprise and bewilderment still on his face as he rocked back in a squatting position on his heels.

  “But, Uncle,” Heads Off interjected, “how can this be?”

  The medicine man shrugged, as if such things were beyond his powers to interpret.

  “I only know that the signs are good!”

  The uncomfortable thought struck Heads Off that perhaps the old man’s mind had snapped from the stress. How could any sign be good? Still, the confident expression on the medicine man’s face, his calm demeanor, and the alert look in his eye were not those of a lunatic.

  It was difficult not to become caught up in the obvious mood of White Buffalo. No further information was forthcoming, however. He had said all he would. That was the message that his prediction had to tell.

  “The signs are good.”

  It was obvious, as Crow Woman placed the equipment of the dance back in its place, that the interview was over. White Buffalo resumed his seat, and relighted his pipe. Coyote and Heads Off thanked him and Crow Woman held the door skin aside for them to leave. Already there was a change in her face, optimism beginning to shine through.

  Possibly it was Crow Woman who spread the word. At any rate, it traveled like a prairie fire. By the time they reached their own lodge, people were calling to each other the cheerful message.

  They encountered Big Footed Woman at the door.

  “What is it, my husband?”

  “White Buffalo says the signs are good!” Coyote sounded puzzled.

  His wife lifted her glance to the gathering of the enemy camp beyond the brush barrier.

  “But how can this be?”

  Both men shrugged again, still bewildered. A long shout reached their ears
from down by the stream as someone called to a friend.

  “The signs are good.”

  It was impossible not to become caught up in the optimism of the thing. Even Heads Off began to believe, against what he knew to be true. By dark he, too, was completely convinced that by some miracle they would be successful. Though outnumbered three to one, the People would turn the enemy back at the barricade and emerge victorious.

  Just what would happen next was unclear. How they could escape from the siege remained a mystery. Yet the new optimism was contagious. Everyone had a new strength and determination, despite the fact that nothing had changed. The mere message “the signs are good” had transformed the spirit of the band.

  The People retired that night with more hope than they had had for many suns.

  And it was that night that the enemy burned the barricade.

  30

  Heads Off awoke at the first cry of alarm from one of the sentries. He sprang from the sleeping robes and grabbed his lance as he dashed outside, ready to defend the lodges.

  But there was no attack. A flicker of light from the direction of the brush barrier made him turn that way. There was a warm spring breeze from the southwest, and as it struck his face, it carried also the unmistakable smell of fire. He trotted upwind, zigzagging among the lodges, and came into the open of the meadow just as someone gave a long shout.

  “Aiee! They are burning the brush!”

  Flames were licking hungrily through the tinder-dry barricade in at least three places. No enemy were to be seen. They had planned well. Under cover of darkness they had chosen the proper moment to creep to the barrier and ignite it. Fanned by the brisk breezes, the fire was already burning well out of control. Several people were silhouetted against the glare.

  “Stay back! Let it burn!”

  There was no hope of extinguishing the flames anyway, and to approach the light of the fire was to invite an unseen arrow from the darkness.

  The People gathered in groups to watch the destruction, staying well back to avoid a chance bowshot. A few warriors, at the suggestion of Heads Off, trotted to the woods in case of an attack from that direction. Coyote thought that event highly unlikely. The Head Splitters were known to avoid combat at night. According to their beliefs, it was said, the spirit of a warrior dying in the night was doomed to wander forever, lost in the darkness.