Something Good had noticed the yellow hair watching her, and she had been amused. And touched. She knew what it was like to be a stranger. She missed her own family and friends, and asked for news of Old Owl’s band whenever there were visitors in camp. Sometimes in the middle of the everyday chaos Naduah’s face would take on a lost, lonely, frightened look, and Something Good wanted to hug her and tickle her out of the mood. She looked so out of place with her indigo eyes and corn yellow hair, like a golden kingbird in a raven’s nest. So she had invited the girls to come with her. She couldn’t go out alone, and she didn’t want anyone older along. There was another reason for the trip, and she was sure the girls would keep her secret.
They chattered beside her now as she rode, staring intently at the ground, searching the rough caliche limestone soil for deer signs. They were traveling through a deep ravine, the preferred route of the People. Whites usually chose the easier, level, exposed ridges, often to their sorrow: they made excellent targets there. The sides of the narrow game trail were tightly woven with underbrush, small plum trees, roses, currant bushes, and gooseberries. And meshed with them were huge masses of prickly pear and wildflowers. A fat yellow rattlesnake, six feet long, lay basking on top of the wild green mat. The few tall pecans were festooned with grapevines, the undersides of their leaves shimmering silver in the breeze.
Tiny brown canyon wrens darted nervously among the trees, their clear, liquid “tee tee tee tee, tew tew tew tew” cascading down the scale. The girls’ passing disturbed the yellow kingbirds too and they flew overhead like flashes of sunlight, chattering their rapid “queer-a-chi-queer, queer-a-chi-queer.” Rose-colored tanagers watched from the limbs overhead, and the dapper woodpeckers ignored them, rapping out their tatoos on the tree trunks.
For an instant Cynthia found herself face to face with a tiny, jewel-like hummingbird, its head and neck gleaming iridescent green in the sun. It hovered at eye level as though inspecting her before vanishing, its vibrating wings forming a halo around it. She turned to see if Star Name had seen it, and they grinned at each other. The smell of the warm earth and dense foliage and spring flowers was intoxicating. Old One Hundred began ringing in her head, and she hummed it to herself, hearing her grandfather’s rumbling bass and her mother’s delicate soprano.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise him all creatures here below….
Her song ended in a gobble from the line of six turkeys that strutted single file along the top of the ravine opposite the stream. They took flight in an explosion of flapping wings.
Something Good ignored the noise and concentrated on the ground. They were following a cold, spring-fed creek that bumped noisily into the rocks in its path as it rushed to get to the river several miles to the east. Crickets hushed under their horses’ hooves and started up again after they had passed. It was late afternoon, and the insects thrummed and pulsed until the blood in Cynthia’s temples seemed to beat in time with them. Something Good held up her hand, signaling the other two to halt, and put a finger on her lips.
She crooked a leg and swung it over her saddle, jumping off lightly. Her knees bent as she landed, and she crouched in one smooth motion. Something Good never flails around, Cynthia thought grimly as she struggled to get down from the mule’s bony back. She hung with her stomach across the sharp ridge of his backbone and kicked, stretching her legs and feeling for solid ground. When she was riding him it seemed as though his two ends were going to fold up and pinch her in the middle, but swaybacked as he was, it was still a long way down.
Star Name had pushed back on his rump and slid off that way, using his tattered tail to steady herself. If I did that he’d kick me sure, or break wind on me. He had fired off one loud, popping explosion after another, all along the trail. They’d been giggling about it for hours, pounding his sunken sides with their heels to hurry him out of his own stench.
The three girls squatted around the prim, curved, twin indentations in the wet sand by the creek.
“Adeca, deer.” Something Good breathed the word almost silently. They remounted, Star Name cupping her hands to give Cynthia a boost. Then she took a short running start and leaped on herself, Cynthia hauling her up by the back of her dress. They retraced their steps a little way, then climbed a steep trail to the top of the ravine. They kept downwind of the deer tracks and avoided the faint deer path that lay like a part in the bushes. Cynthia would never have noticed it if Something Good hadn’t pointed it out. The deer would be coming to drink soon, drifting like twilight shadows down the trail.
Something Good led them a mile through the bush-covered hills to a large bowl-shaped depression, the remains of a limestone cave that had collapsed. At the bottom of the sinkhole bubbled a clear spring, forming a pool rimmed with a green velvet carpet of moss. The pool was shallow except at the center, where the water was the color of pale blue silk. It was so clear that the bottom was plainly visible, and it looked only a few inches deep all the way across. But it wasn’t. The spring went down fifty feet before joining the vast underground lake that flowed through the dissolved limestone bedrock.
The sides of the depression were covered with tall plumes of ferns, solidly massed. The air was ten degrees cooler there. At the top of the bowl was a grove of pecan trees and scrub cedar, and Something Good motioned for them to tether the mules among the trees. She didn’t dismount, but turned and disappeared in the direction of the deer trail.
There were only two hours of daylight left, and Star Name wasted no time. She led the two mules down to the spring and watched while they drank, pushing aside the flocks of black water bugs that skated over the surface. Water oozed into their hoofprints in the moss, making tiny green ponds. Then she brought the animals back and slipped the twisted rawhide hobbles around their front legs, chopping with the edge of her hand behind their knees to make them lift their feet. She fastened the hobbles with a wooden toggle that fit through a slit in the leather. Then she pulled a pair of long, sharpened stakes from the pack and pounded them into the hard ground with a heavy rock. She tethered each animal to them by fifteen-foot lines of braided buffalo hair, tied at the ends with thongs to keep them from unraveling. She yanked at the knots and the stakes to test them. The mules weren’t much, but without them they’d be in serious trouble.
Cynthia stood watching Something Good ride off, a hollow feeling growing in her stomach. What if something happened to her? Would Star Name know the way home? The beauty around her grew ominous and threatening.
“Naduah. Kee-mah, come.” Star Name beckoned, and Cynthia walked over to untie the load from the pack mule. He bit at her in thanks, and she socked him hard on the tender muzzle as Sunrise did. Her foster father’s meaning had been clear. Never let a mule or horse get the upper hand. And never let an animal sense that you are afraid of it. She stood now, glaring up at the mule, her hands on her hips. He towered over her, but the bluff worked. He lowered his head docilely, looking at her innocently from the corner of his eye, and began ripping up mouthfuls of the thick grama grass.
Star Name dug a fire pit and began bringing in loads of wood while Cynthia carried the bundles to the campsite. She rummaged around in them until she found the parfleche of jerky, but Star Name shook her head and motioned her to put it back. Cynthia sighed, her stomach rumbling in protest. No wonder Indians ate so much. They ate so rarely. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about being attacked by Comanche. As they chopped brush for a shelter, a smile chased the thought across her face.
“Hakai, what?” Star Name caught the look, but Cynthia wouldn’t have explained it if she could. She shrugged and grinned and went back to tying up the poles for the lean-to frame.
Star Name was teaching Cynthia to light a fire when Something Good returned. They were huddled close to block the wind and taking turns pulling the small bow of the fire drill back and forth. The rawhide thong was looped once around the drill stick, which twirled as the bow was pulled from side to side. It was a
long, tedious process. While one child twirled the stick, pressing down on the flat rock on top of it with her other palm, the second girl steadied the hearth, the piece of wood with the hole into which the drill stick fit. She also fed small handfuls of tinder into the smoking hole and blew it gently. Star Name was using the stringy, frayed inner bark of the cedar trees, and it smelled good as it smoldered.
They were both so intent on what they were doing, hypnotized by the teasing little curls of smoke and the tiny sparks, that they didn’t hear Something Good sneak up behind them. They had just coaxed a real flame when she screamed an unearthly, blood-congealing, ululating war cry that echoed eerily among the ragged hills and bounced off the bluffs that loomed against the darkening sky. It sent spasms of terror down Cynthia’s spine and stood her hair on end. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it as she whirled around, her knife drawn. Something Good sank down onto one of the beds of cedar boughs that the girls had cut and covered with a buffalo robe. She was laughing too hard to stand up.
“You should never let anyone surprise you like that. I wish you could see your faces.” Star Name and Cynthia stood stunned for a few seconds, then, without even looking at each other or saying a word, they attacked. They dived onto Something Good, tickling her until they were all crying with laughter and too weak to wrestle anymore. They rolled in the dirt together in a wild tangle of flailing arms and legs, and finally sat up, brushing the sand and bits of gravel off each other.
“Some scouts you two are. I could have taken both your scalps.”
“Some wife you are. Where’s the live coal to start the fire? Why should we wear ourselves out with this drill? At least you could have left the flint.” Star Name kicked the drill with her foot. Her pride had been damaged.
“You know you need the practice, bright eyes. And you may be caught somewhere without a flint or coal, but you can always make a bow and drill. Namasi-kohtoo, quick, quick. Make the fire, and I’ll skin the deer. Unless you would rather butcher it and I’ll start the fire.”
“I’ll start it.” Star Name grumbled a little as she gathered the scattered tools. It wasn’t often that she was on the receiving end of a joke, and she didn’t like it. She sawed at the bow almost viciously and the flame caught faster. Cynthia fed it dried moss, then twigs, until it was burning brightly.
Something Good tied a line around the neck of the doe she had shot, leaving it in place on the back of her pony. She threw the other end of the line over a low limb. Swinging her whole weight on the rope to hoist the carcass up, she fastened the end of the line around the tree trunk. The body revolved slowly as she cut the skin around the neck, just above the shoulders. The girls helped her peel it down toward the heels, tugging on it as, with her skinning knife, she cut it away from the tissue underneath. They ended up with the entire hide in one piece and inside out.
She tied the arrow hole and the four legs shut with buckskin thongs, twisting tiny pegs into them to keep the thongs tight and in place. They all took turns blowing up the skin, until it was distended like a bladder, then Something Good tied the neck closed. She held it up.
“Our honey container.”
“Oh.” The why was answered. “That’s what the deerskin is for.”
“Of course. Were you planning to carry the honey home in your hands?” Star Name held her hands out, bloody from the skinning. Cynthia was glad Something Good had shot a small deer. She was filthy and exhausted, and there was still the carcass to butcher. She washed off with some of the water from the gourd canteen.
By the light of the fire Star Name put together a small drying rack, a tripod of five-foot poles with three more sticks lashed across them horizontally for hanging the meat strips. Cynthia cut long green sticks and whittled points to toast the fresh steaks for their evening meal. The thin strips that Something Good was cutting to take as travel rations would smoke and dry next to the fire. What they couldn’t eat or dry, she stuffed into a buffalo stomach liner and tied tightly shut. She went off into the night, carrying it and a burning brand to light her way.
“Hah-ich-ka po-mea, where is she going?” It was very dark now, and it made Cynthia nervous to see Something Good disappear again.
“She will put the meat into the water to keep it cool.” Star Name had become so used to clarifying her explanations with elaborate gestures that she did it automatically now. When the wood had burned down to coals, Star Name laid the liver across them, and the smells almost made Cynthia dizzy with hunger.
Something Good appeared again, like a wraith materializing from the darkness, and brought a treat for them. They each dipped into the small leather bag and scooped out fingerfuls of mush made from buffalo marrow and crushed mesquite beans. It was sweet and took the edge off their hunger. Then she threw some water-lily roots from the pond into the ashes.
When they had eaten, the three of them leaned against a broad trunk of the nearest pecan and watched the fire dance. Something Good had built it up so that the light from it played high in the limbs above them. She had tied one end of a thirty-foot rawhide line to an arrow and shot it over one of the limbs. Then she had bundled what food was left and the swollen deerskin and hoisted them far up among the leaves, safe from bears. She dragged the remains of the deer carcass off behind her pony and dumped it into a crevice.
“If any bears come looking for food tonight, all they’ll find is us.” She settled back between Star Name and Cynthia. She seemed relaxed, at ease there, yet restless, her eyes searching the dark around them, looking not for danger but for something else.
The sounds of night insects were all around them. The wind soughed through the canopy of leaves. Otherwise it was quiet. Above them the stars were so thick and brilliant the pebbles on the ground around them threw tiny shadows. Something Good tried to teach them a lullaby, her voice low and soothing.
The wind is singing.
The wind is singing in the leaves.
The wind is singing me to sleep.
Cynthia tried to learn it, repeating the words and imitating the simple tune. But it was too hypnotic for her, and the day had been too long. Her voice trailed off and she fell asleep with her head on Something Good’s shoulder. On the other side, Star Name soon followed. Neither of them heard Something Good’s second song. She sang it even lower, each word wrapped in spider webs of melancholy.
Nei-na-su-tama-habi.
I lie down and dream of you.
I rise up and think of you.
When the wind blows through my hair,
I know you are moving in my heart.
Neither of the girls remembered her helping them into their beds of fragrant cedar boughs. And not once during the long day had it occurred to Cynthia to try to escape.
They were up early the next morning, and Something Good gave them their orders as she divided the small amount of honey she had brought along as bait.
“Find a flat rock in an open place over there, on the other side of the sinkhole. If you can’t find a clearing, make one. Use your knives to cut down the bushes. Save the ax.”
“It’s going to be a hot day, which is good. The deer hide and the meat will dry more quickly. The sun will evaporate the honey, and the smell will attract the bees faster.
“Don’t follow the first bee. Let her go back to the hive and bring the others. When they have their supply line set up you can see which direction they’re traveling and go that way. If you lose one, there’ll be more to follow. I’ll do the same here. Where we meet, the hive will be. We’ll cut down the tree and wait until they’ve settled down some. Then we’ll come back for the honey. The hide should be ready to hold it by then.
“The bees will be all stirred up, of course, but don’t swat them. Ignore them. You’ll get stung, but not as often. And when one does sting you, don’t pull the stinger out. Scrape it out with your knife blade. If you squeeze it to get it out you’ll release the venom in it. Do you have any questions?”
Cynthia didn’t understand enough of the
instructions to ask any, and Star Name said no. It wasn’t her first hunt for the white man’s flies, the imported gift that the People accepted as they accepted horses and metal.
The sky was the color of bleached denim and the day was already hot. Star Name and Cynthia wore only their moccasins and breechclouts as they walked around the huge bowl left by the collapsed cave. They peered over the ragged limestone boulders fringed with ferns at the edge. Sweat was collecting under their arms and the pool looked inviting below, like a pale sapphire in an emerald setting. It was the color of the sky, complete with reflections of small clouds floating in it. Later they would enjoy it. There was work to do now.
Star Name carried the bait honey carefully in a few broad, triangular cottonwood leaves. Cynthia carried an ax very much like the one her father had owned. Star Name poured the honey onto a flat rock, and they cleared a comfortable place in the shade of a pecan. Star Name repeated Something Good’s instructions again in the handtalk/pidgin/pantomime language they had worked out between themselves. She gathered a handful of the pale pink flowers that grew around them and held them out for her friend to sniff. She patted her stomach and smiled. It would be delicious, fragrant honey.
The first bee landed and inspected the bait. She seemed to be taking its measurements and testing it, stroking it with her
Star Name and Cynthia froze, watching her. When she took off it was tempting to chase her, but they resisted, waiting in suspense to see if more would return. It seemed to take forever before another one lighted, then a third. Cynthia held her fists tightly clenched, urging them to hurry and fly. Bees had never seemed like such slow, methodical creatures before.
Finally one rose, circled twice to gain altitude, and took off. The girls raced after her, caught up in the excitement of the chase. They shouted and laughed and hooted as they tore across the hills. It wasn’t easy to keep a tiny insect in sight in rough country, but they were determined to make as straight a beeline as their prey. They crashed through stands of scrub oak and the occasional roly-poly cedar, swerving to avoid only the thickets of plum and grape and prickly pear that were too tall to leap. They plowed through meadows of wildflowers, leaving a swath behind them. They toiled up hills and raced down the other side, sometimes sliding to the bottom in a hail of gravel.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 10
