Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)

by James Welch

  Fools Crow and the others made good time down the valley of the Two Medicine River. They kept to the open ground where the wind had scoured the snow away, and the packhorses drove easily before them. Sits-in-the-middle, who had a reputation as a good meat provider, led the party, and the others had great faith in his power to lead them to the blackhorns. By the time Sun was behind them, they had reached the confluence of the Two Medicine and Bear. They saw a winter camp and recognized it as that of the Hard Topknots. They drove the horses around the southern edge of the camp and Sits-in-the-middle and Fools Crow galloped over to the lodge of Crow Foot. Fools Crow rode apprehensively, several paces behind Sits-in-the-middle, for he remembered the design on the yellow skin. Again, he saw Little Bird Woman, Crow Foot’s daughter, lugging the bucket of guts from the agency compound. He shuddered as he thought that at one time she had been chosen to become his wife.

  Crow Foot welcomed them but he did not offer them a smoke. Although he had not been affected by the white-scabs, the hunters were almost frightened to see how thin he had become. Then he began to talk of the empty lodges in his camp—over half of the Hard Topknots had been carried away. He spoke the names of the dead as though he had memorized them. He told of the suffering and the desertions and the falling apart of the band. He spoke rapidly and he signed as he talked, as he would to strangers. And then he stopped talking and stared out at the camp, as if in a trance. Fools Crow looked around and he didn’t see any of the Hard Topknots. This was unusual, for visitors brought the curious from their lodges to look, to laugh and point, to come join in the conversation. Now there was none of that. Not even dogs. The two hunters wished Crow Foot well and promised him meat on their return, but he didn’t seem to hear them. They left him there, still staring in disbelief at the quiet camp.

  That night they made camp in a thicket of willows on the north side of the Bear River. They had seen no game all day and so they ate handfuls of pemmican before sleeping. Fools Crow awoke twice during the night to the howling of the little-wolves, and each time he felt the cold sense of dread that had accompanied him since the party left their camp. When he finally slept, he dreamed of enemies.

  The hunting party was up and on the move long before daylight. If they pushed hard this day, they would be in the blackhorn country within two more sleeps. Fools Crow rode beside Sits-in-the-middle at the head of the small group. Behind them, the others drove the pack animals. After a long period of silence in which the only sound was the rubbing of cold leather and the steady clopping of the horses’ hooves, Fools Crow told the hunt leader of his dream of enemies. He had not seen them clearly in his dream, and in the darkness before dawn, the vision seemed less significant.

  But Sits-in-the-middle listened and then he said, “This dream of yours does not make me happy. I am responsible for these young men and I must return them to their families. But the Lone Eaters need meat, that is our first concern, and so we must chance an encounter with our enemies.”

  Fools Crow, glanced at Sits-in-the-middle. The light had increased enough so that he could see the dark frown on the hunt leader’s face. It was a round, almost puffy face. Many in the camp secretly ridiculed Sits-in-the-middle, for his mother was a Snake woman who had been captured by the Lone Eaters many winters ago. She had been a slave until the Pikuni Hears-in-the-wind took her as a wife. Sits-in-the-middle was her only offspring. Fools Crow felt pity for him, for he was barely listened to in councils and was deemed capable only of leading a small party of young hunters.

  “Perhaps our enemies are also down with the white-scabs,” said Fools Crow. “My dream was less than clear. I do not attach much importance to it.”

  By midmorning the sun was high to the southeast and the hunters stopped to stretch their bodies and to slap the circulation back into their calves and thighs and arms. Again they had seen no sign of game, but they hadn’t expected to. Because of the winter camps in the valley, the animals were scarce and moved only at night. After eating a handful of pemmican, Fools Crow mounted his black buffalo-runner. He felt the animal’s warmth beneath his thighs and was grateful for it. Although there was no wind, the air was as cold as it had been that winter. He pulled his robe up over his capote and sat, waiting for the others to finish their cold meal. He gazed absently down the valley.

  At first he didn’t believe what he was seeing. He jumped up and stood on his horse’s back and he could see more clearly the patches of color beneath a cutbank far in the distance. It took a while to see their movement, but soon he saw that the patches were people, on foot, and they were coming toward the hunters.

  “What is it you look at?” said Sits-in-the-middle. He began to hurry to a piece of higher ground. The others followed, suddenly alert and expectant.

  “Human beings. On foot. They are coming our way.” He jumped down to the ground. He could only think of enemies. Only horse stealers traveled on foot in the winter.

  After a quick look, Sits-in-the-middle ran down the small rise. The others followed, breathing hard, their excitement causing the horses to move restlessly. One of the pack animals began to whinny until a hunter reached him and clamped his hand over the muzzle.

  “We must be ready,” said Sits-in-the-middle. “They are coming straight down the river beneath the cutbank.” There was no cover near, but the swale they were in hid them from view. The hunt leader instructed one of the young men to drive the pack animals back upstream and into a gully that opened out onto the river bottom.

  Then the hunters waited, Fools Crow and Sits-in-the-middle lying below the lip of the rise. Both had repeating rifles, but the others had only bows. None of them had encountered an enemy before. Fools Crow looked back at them and they looked like prairie birds, crouched together, facing up at him. They are too young, he thought. If the raiders are experienced warriors it will go hard on us. He almost expressed his fear to Sits-in-the-middle, but as he looked down the valley at the approaching party, he felt his apprehension leave him.

  “There are children among them,” he whispered. “Little ones. And some of them move slowly, like old people.” He lifted himself from the ground and knelt. “They carry nothing with them—no weapons.”

  Soon the people were close enough for Fools Crow to count. There were three old people, two young women, a youth of twelve or thirteen winters and two children. One of the young women was limping badly. The other was helping her. They were Pikunis. Fools Crow recognized the wounded one—White Crane Woman, a member of Heavy Runner’s band. He looked downstream, in the direction the group had come from, but there were no others.

  “Something has happened, something bad!” Fools Crow ran down the rise and threw himself on his horse. The others still crouched motionless, their mouths open like birds.

  As he galloped the black buffalo-runner down the valley, he knew this scene had something to do with the yellow skin and the designs. It was the same weather, the same kind of day that the seizers rode north. He felt the fear and guilt rise and spread throughout his limbs and he was almost too weak to stay up. He had seen the design. “Why didn’t I warn them?” he cried. “Why didn’t I tell them?” The wind was in his eyes and the hoofbeats filled his ears and he pushed the horse even faster.

  As he reined in, the horse skidded almost to his rump, and the people began to scramble back against the cutbank. Only the children, a boy and a girl, stood and watched him.

  “It is Fools Crow—of the Lone Eaters! I have come to help you!” .

  White Crane Woman had fallen when her companion deserted her, but now she stood, her eyes dark and hard.

  “White Crane Woman! You know me. Our families visit during the Sun Dance encampment.” Fools Crow slid from his horse and ran to her. He caught her just as her energy faded and gently lowered her to the frozen ground. The old ones and the other woman slowly approached. The youth still clung to the side of the cutbank.

  “What has happened to you?”

  No one spoke. They stood and Fools Crow saw the fear retur
n to their eyes. Then he heard the harsh thumping of the horses as the other hunters rode up. “They are also Lone Eaters. They too come to help.” Fools Crow knelt beside White Crane Woman. The hem of her dress was bloody. He raised it and saw the bullet wound through the fleshy part of her calf. The skin was red and shredded where it had exited. Fools Crow had no medicine but he did have a piece of soft-tanned skin in his war bag. As he wrapped the wound, one of the old ones, a woman, knelt beside him and spoke. “It was the seizers. They sneaked up on us while we were still asleep. There was only a little light, just enough to see by, and they shot us in our lodges. Pretty soon, our people were running in all directions and still they shot us. Many of us are killed. We managed to slip away, down to the river, and run away below the cutbank. But one of the greased shooters found this one’s leg. We ran away and now you have found us.”

  “The others—are they all dead?”

  “I do not know this. We had to run and keep on going. But the shooters were still buzzing until finally we were beyond hearing.”

  The young woman who had been helping White Crane Woman came forward and squatted beside the old woman. Her eyes were flat with shock.

  “They killed Heavy Runner,” she said. She pointed with her lips to the youth who was now leaning back against the cutbank. “That boy there saw him fall.”

  Fools Crow tied off the bandage, then looked up at the two women. He was surprised at the calmness with which they related their news. They could have been telling him about a relative’s visit or a berrying party. But as he looked into their eyes, he saw that the immensity of what had happened had left them numb.

  “Where is your camp?” he said.

  “In the big bend below the Medicine Rock. It is not long by horseback.”

  Fools Crow stood and turned to Sits-in-the-middle, “I will go there and see for myself.”

  A look of hesitancy came into Sits-in-the-middle’s eyes, as though he too might be expected to go to the massacred camp.

  “These people can find shelter in Crow Foot’s camp,” said Fools Crow. “They will need you to lead them.”

  “Yes, that is true. We will take them on the packhorses and wait for you there.”

  First there was the smoke, only slightly darker than the gray air. It rose from behind a bluff where the river curved to the south. The sun was behind it, and it looked orange and sharp-edged.

  Then the black horse smelled it and stiffened beneath his rider. It was a smell not of smoke but of burnt things, and the smell was heavy in the air. Even though the bluff stood between the horse and the smell, he stopped, his shoulders and forelegs trembling. Fools Crow kicked the horse in the ribs, but still he did not move.

  “You know what we are about to see. You have known for a long time, Heavy-charging-in-the-brush.” Fools Crow let the horse settle down. “We will see it now. We will take heart from Wolverine, who always faces into the wind.”

  The horse moved forward and soon they were around the bluff and they saw the remains of the camp. There were no fires visible but the smoke was darker and thicker. It rose from many places until it became a cloud above the south bank of the river. As they moved up to higher ground, Fools Crow began to pick out the blackened lumps that emitted the smoke. Between the lumps, the snow was still white. Then a small wind blew the smoke toward him and the snow became yellow and dirty and the smell hit his nostrils, the smell of burnt skin. Fools Crow could almost taste it, and it was smoky and pleasant in his mouth. He began to weep and still the horse moved forward.

  Then they were at the edge of the camp and the black lumps were lodges that had been burned. A dog lay in the snow a few paces away. Most of his hair had been burned off and his tongue was black against the white teeth. Then Fools Crow saw something else lying in a patch of blackened, melted snow. He kicked the horse in the ribs and moved toward it. The sight made his stomach come up against his ribs. It was an infant and its head was black and hairless. Specks of black ash lay in its wide eyes. Fools Crow fell from his horse and vomited up the handful of pemmican he had eaten earlier that morning. He was on his hands and knees and the convulsions wracked his body until only a thin yellow strand of saliva hung from his lips. He stayed in that position and gulped hard until the wracking stopped. He wiped his mouth and eyes, then stood. And he began to pick out the other bodies. Most of them had been thrown onto the burning lodges but they were not all black like the infant. There were scraps of clothes that hadn’t burned. There was skin and hair and eyes. There were teeth and bone and arms and legs. One old woman lay on top on one of the smoking lumps, only the underside of her skin dress burned. Her feet were bare. Fools Crow, through his tears, saw the purple welts on her legs where she had slashed herself a long time ago in mourning a lost one.

  As he wandered from smoking ruin to ruin, he didn’t really know that his eyes had quit seeing, that his nose no longer burned with the smell of death. He didn’t even notice that his feet had gotten wet from walking through the trampled melted snow. On the far side of camp, he kept moving until he came to a downed big-leaf. He sat slowly, carefully down on the smooth trunk and buried his face in his hands. He rubbed his eyes and there were no more tears, not from the smoke, not from his heart. He sat for a long time, tired and numb, until his mind came back and he remembered where he was, what he had seen. Still he was in no hurry to open his eyes.

  Then he felt something on his knee. He opened his eyes and saw a red puppy standing before him, one paw on his knee, the other swiping the air as though he wanted to play. He reached out and touched the head and ran his hand all the way down to the tail. The puppy yipped and bit the air. Fools Crow smiled and the puppy sat back and scratched himself behind the ear.

  Through the smoke, on the other side of the camp, Fools Crow saw a figure standing motionless, looking at him. It was a man and Fools Crow’s heart quickened. He had only his knife in his belt. But the man was dressed in the way of the Pikunis. The knees of his leggings were black. Fools Crow stood quickly and the puppy tumbled away, yipping in fear. Then another figure emerged from the brush behind the man. It was an old woman, bent with age. Two more figures came forward, and they too were old.

  When he reached them, Fools Crow saw that the first man was hardly more than a youth. He was tall but his shoulders slumped. Fools Crow looked at the others and he recognized Black Prairie Runner, once a man who had led many war parties against the enemies. His eyes were cloudy now and his long fingers, clutching a blanket over his shoulders, were bent and stiff.

  “They drove off our horses,” he said. His words were mild and flimsy in the cold air.

  “Are there others? Others who survived?”

  “Our horses are all gone. You see”—he waved his free arm around them—“there are no horses.”

  Fools Crow looked questioningly at the others.

  The young man stepped forward. “I am called Bear Head. My father was also called Bear Head, and he was killed by Owl Child some winters ago.”

  “Yes,” said Fools Crow. “They argued over who had killed a Cutthroat in battle. It is said that Owl Child made a false claim.”

  “All there knew that the Cutthroat was my father’s kill. But Owl Child was crazy and he killed my father rather than admit his falsehood.” Bear Head stood straighter. “I will have my revenge.”

  Fools Crow was moved by this small introduction, for he knew Bear Head would have no satisfactory revenge. Even revenge had been slaughtered.

  “I met some of your band, escaping up the river. The other hunters I was with have taken them to Crow Foot’s camp. They told of the seizers.”

  “It was the seizers. I left camp before first light to get my horses. I had planned to do some hunting this day and I needed pack animals. The herds were down near the foot of Three Persons. I picked out four animals and was leading them back when I saw some movement on that low ridge over there. It was still dark down here but there was a faint light in the sky behind the ridge. At first I thought it was
a pack of little-wolves up there, thinking to look for scraps around the camp. But then one of the shapes stood and I knew it for a man. I became frightened and began to run toward camp, leaving my horses where they stood. But just before entering that stand of spear-leafs, I saw the dark shapes before me. There was a man behind each tree. Then all at once came the thunder and fire of the big guns. I froze against a tree. All I could do was listen and pray that the thunder would end, but it went on and on until it was light enough to see the cloud of blue smoke from the guns. It hung in the trees and drifted toward me. I could taste it in my mouth. When I looked up at the ridge I could see hundreds of fire flashes through the smoke. But I still could not see my village so I began to run around the seizers in the trees. They were so intent on their work that they did not look around. Finally I was on the lower side, near the river and I saw my people—” Bear Head stopped, and Fools Crow could see his eyes wander beyond him to the remains of the camp. He seemed to focus on one of the smoking lumps. Fools Crow turned and saw that it had burned nearly to the ground.