Cut Hand

by Mark Wildyr

  “You are welcome, Teacher. Cut Hand says he has a great story to tell. We will hear your side of it to make certain he does not blow smoke in our eyes.”

  The village, which boasted about thirty skin lodges, gave Cut Hand a tumultuous reception. Joy at seeing their kinsman safe overcame the natural reserve I learned they generally accorded strangers. All were similarly clad. The men boasted girdles of buckskin, sturdy moccasins, which I called shoepacs, and little else except for occasional shell disk ornaments or gorgets, which looked to be French. A few wore bone breastplates. The women dressed modestly in soft shifts of buffalo hide or some sort of herba, a grass cloth. Their habit occasioned a more liberal use of dyed porcupine quills and beadwork. Hair on both male and female was uniformly long and thick and customarily worn in braids falling to either side of the face.

  Mongrel dogs yipped with unrestrained pleasure. Fat, dark children shouted or laughed or cried according to their nature. As we threaded our way between clustered tipis, I noticed armed sentinels on horseback at the distant edges of the village. The procession halted before an unadorned lodge no larger and no smaller than all the others. The women of the band gathered in a large clearing before the tipi around a handsome matron attended by a beautiful young woman some years my junior. This was Bright Dove, Cut Hand’s mother, and his sister, Butterfly, exactly as he described them.

  Cut Hand greeted his mother with an awkward embrace. Butterfly received an affectionate bear hug. Not so restrained as the older woman, she peppered him with questions and recriminations for worrying them so.

  After I was introduced, Cut showed me to the bachelors’ tipi, where I stowed my personal gear. Left to my own devices, I changed clothes, discovering my white skin to be the object of some curiosity among the three young men in the lodge. Uncertain whether to hize or haze—that is, sequester myself or wander aimlessly—I settled on something useful.

  Before I was halfway finished washing my soiled clothing at the river, Butterfly took them away and shooed me back to camp. Allowing her to handle my underclothing was acutely embarrassing to me. Apparently it was of no concern to her.

  The evening meal in Yellow Puma’s tipi, which I was invited to share, was buffalo pluck, a mixture of heart and liver, with French beans, corn, squash, rape, and what I would call jonakin, a sort of cornbread. Conversation did not once touch on our recent adventures but centered on me. Because of Cut’s proclamation that I was “the Teacher,” I described my time at Moorehouse, although images of a calculus classroom were not especially impressive at the moment. The women of the household supped on the south side of the lodge, and their silence indicated the men’s conversation was of more interest than their own.

  When we moved outside, the entire village had congregated on the hocoka, the important open space before the headman’s lodge where the Four Directions meet. Spotted Hawk took a seat beside me on the buffalo robe spread for the occasion. The members of the council arranged themselves in a circle. One, a man of middling years with a dark, wolfish look about him, was the biggest Indian I had ever seen. He was not obese but carried a bulk that complemented his great height.

  Yellow Puma, who sat to my left, made a production out of lighting a calumet, offering the pipe to the sky, earth, and four cardinal directions. I am not a consumer of tobacco and kept a straight face with difficulty as I drew the acrid smoke into my lungs. When the pipe made the circle of the council, Yellow Puma turned to Cut.

  “We rejoice at your safe return, Cut Hand. We found your pony and the dead Pipe Stem, but your trail went cold in the mountains. Now you have returned with a guest and riches and a story.”

  Cut Hand rose and gave a sign to Little Eagle and Otter while I discreetly tried to cough smoke from my innards. Spotted Hawk took note of my actions. The boys lugged several large bundles over and laid them at Cut’s feet.

  “My father,” Cut began in the manner of a born storyteller. “Three Pipe Stem warriors ambushed me as I was returning home. The cowards shot my pony from under me.”

  I swallowed a smile when no one asked how they accomplished that feat, but doubtless the teasing would come when he was alone with his peers. I suspected the big Indian I noticed earlier picked up on the omission.

  “I headed for the mountain country, moving as stealthily as a serpent,” Cut went on. “For half the span of the sun, I worried my way through a draw, over a hillock, through the buffalo grass, taking what cover I could.”

  Oh yes, he was going to make an epic of it. I felt eyes on me and knew Spotted Hawk watched me closely. Had he ever seen a white man before? When I turned my attention back to Cut, his physical beauty distracted me for a moment, a dangerous thing with the old shaman’s eyes on me.

  Cut told of slipping over the crown of a ridge to find himself in the clutches of three savage white men. Savage white men? I suppose a fair-minded citizen could reach that conclusion if he didn’t know us. Some of the People nodded in recognition of Splitrum’s name. Cut identified me as the third of the savages and told of his deliverance from Red’s deadly knife.

  Splitlip lived up to his reputation in the epic by cunningly outwitting the remaining Pipe Stem bent on murdering Cut Hand. The old man’s wood lore grew near unto magic as he slurred the trail of four people from the sharp eyes of the enemy. Somehow the subject of manacles never came up, but Cut rendered me full credit on the morning the two warriors attacked. Nobody asked why he left both of them to me.

  Cut Hand came into his own when we left the river, boon companions now, bound for his village. The battle with the renegades was exciting enough to be told without embellishment, and this time we were heroes together. The fact the six raiders had been liberally sampling the traders’ liquor stores escaped the telling. He finished with his invitation for me to come live with the Yanube to learn their ways and earn their friendship.

  Yellow Puma bade me welcome and thanked me for saving his son’s life three times over. I reminded him Cut Hand had saved me once, which was as good as thrice, because to lose one’s life is a singular event. There were quiet chuckles around the fire and subdued titters from the women at the back of the crowd.

  The Yanube misco expressed disappointment the mighty Splitrum had not accompanied us, and invited me to speak. Even though Cut and I rehearsed this to the extent of him putting words into my mouth, I was leery of the effort. I stood and faced the waiting throng.

  “Thank you, Yellow Puma. I hope my poor words do not fail me. You can be proud of your son. With my own eyes, I saw Cut Hand avoid three mounted warriors with long guns bent on slaying him. I watched as he killed one in hand-to-hand. I witnessed his bravery in confronting three white men, one of whom wanted to put a blade in his heart. Despite this, he helped us construct a canoe so my companions could safely travel to Fort Wheeler.

  “Cut Hand and I have fought together and killed together. To kill a man is not an easy thing, because to my teacher’s mind it is better to learn from a man than to slay him. Yet sometimes it is necessary. Cut Hand told me of his people and made me long to sit at their campfire. But we do not come empty-handed.”

  On cue, Cut opened one of the packs, drawing out a fine breech-loading rifle, which we presented to Yellow Puma. Another went to Spotted Hawk. Keeping only a few of the breechloaders, we asked Yellow Puma to distribute the remainder of the rifles to the People in accordance with their need. The gigantic Indian helped himself to one of the better weapons without waiting for Yellow Puma’s largesse.

  We also gifted the band with our horse herd, less three of the ponies and enough trace animals to pull the wagon I intended to retrieve. The trade goods went to the women, setting off a scramble for pots and knives and trinkets. When things settled down, I continued.

  “I ask to live among the People of the Yanube to learn their ways and draw wisdom from their lore. I will share my own knowledge with you. I do not come as a trader or a trapper or a factor of the white government.”

  I drew a shaky breath before p
roceeding. “I am aware the appearance of white men among you is not welcome, but it is a fact of life that they will come. I began my Soul Journey far to the east beyond the Big Muddy, which the white men call the great river of the Missouri and even beyond the Father of Waters, where the white people number as the blades of grass. Like their red brethren, they do not all speak the same language or dress the same way, but they all do one thing and do it well. They plant their roots and send their increase to the west to put down their own tentacles.

  “Already they have taken the tribal lands of the Six Nations, beaten down the Cherokee, pushed the Choctaw and the Chickasaw to the west. I was a babe when they defeated the great Tecumseh of the Shawnee and took his lands. I was but little older when General Jackson, who is now chief of all the Americans, overcame the Creek Nation.

  “Far to the south, the Seminole are under attack. The Congress—the great council of the Americans—has decreed that all of the red men east of the Mississippi—the Father of Waters—will be moved to the west. Even as we speak, Black Hawk, chief of the Sauk, is battling the Illinois militia. And already other white men travel through your country to explore the far west. Before I was born, white men named Lewis and Clark passed near here to travel the Yellowstone and Columbia River country until they reached the great lake to the west where a man can walk no farther.

  “Others have been to the Great Shining Mountains and down into Spanish Santa Fe, seeking land and furs and the yellow metal that comes from the earth. Someday they will come here as well. But I have come first to offer a bargain. I do not covet your land. I came west seeking to learn, and in return I will teach. I know my people. I know they can be unspeakably savage and unbelievably kind, not much different in that respect from many others. Someday you or your children will have to face great numbers of them. What I can teach you of our ways will help prepare for that time.

  “Cut Hand told me of a savannah not far from here bordered by tree-covered hillocks. The land is flat, yet sheltered. There is good water from a brook. I would build a home at the edge of that clearing and plant seeds. While I am not a trapper, I would snare peltry for my own requirements. While I am not a handler, I would trade fairly any possessions I do not need for those I do. I will earn my keep without becoming a burden to your people.”

  “And I will help him build his home,” Cut declared, “and share that life with him—until my duty calls me back,” he hedged.

  Spotted Hawk spoke into the sudden silence. “Teacher, there is no yellow metal along the Yanube.”

  “Good,” I said emphatically. “Then my people will be slower in coming. I will be privileged to learn from you as you are, not as you will be. And as you come to know me, then you will have a better understanding of my people.”

  The tall, gangly brave I noticed earlier spoke. His voice seemed to rumble around in his massive chest before making it past his lips. “It would be better if you go away,” he announced.

  Cut started to interrupt, but I held up a hand. “There is no variance between us on that. Yes, it would be better if I went away and spoke nothing of the beauty of the land—provided none of my people ever followed in my footsteps. Better if my people never come here. But they will come. When they do, the world will never be the same again. If I can make you understand my people, perhaps the meeting will be easier.”

  There was silence around the fire for a moment before Yellow Puma nodded and filled the void. “Your words are good. They did not fail you. And I believe your heart is good as well. You have saved my son, and while this is sufficient for his mother and me, I have a responsibility to all of the People. You will rest in the tipi of our bachelors until a decision is made. You are welcome in my lodge whenever you wish. Bright Dove and Butterfly will see to your needs.”

  “Thank you. I could not ask for more.”

  Cut spoke up. “Tonight I will sleep with my family. Tomorrow I will join my friend in the bachelors’ tipi.”

  It was obvious a great worry was lifted from Cut as we walked back to the bachelors’ lodge. “You did well. Thank you for not speaking of the buffalo.”

  I had wanted to say that wherever the whites appear, they kill off the native game. As these people relied so heavily on the buffalo for their existence, I intended to warn them of this until he convinced me that would likely cause them to consider my words as silly prattle.

  “I should have, Cut. They deserve to be warned. These things I have spoken are all true.”

  His voice mirrored his disbelief. “Not even the white man can destroy the buffalo. They have always been here. They will always be here.”

  I moved to more personal matters. “When you told them you would share my home, did they fathom our relationship?”

  “No. That is a matter to broach with my father when I decide how to do it.”

  “You don’t know how?” I asked, my voice rising. Somehow this was not working out the way I envisioned.

  “Billy, do not press this thing too fast. It will take time.” He paused before continuing. “We must be careful with Spotted Hawk. Some win-tays are considered sacred because they are powerful people. Tonight you spoke as a man of power. You hinted at the future. Spotted Hawk must not become jealous of your power. He cannot see you as a threat.”

  “Who was the big man who questioned me?”

  “That was Lodge Pole. He’s an outlander, a Lakota who came to the tiospaye when he married one of our women. He also has some weight with the council.” His tone left me to wonder if there was more to the story of this giant.

  DURING THE days that followed, we hunted with others of the band, and as I am a fair marksman, I brought in my share of wild game. Many of the Yanube were friendly, but others kept their distance. Little Eagle and Otter hung around to satisfy their adolescent curiosity about a stranger. Bear Paw aligned himself with those who kept their distance. I amended my initial harsh judgment. He would have made a stout friend.

  The lack of intimate contact caused Cut to cast long looks at the young women, sending one more chill of fear down my near-frozen back—icy from fretting rather than the clime. The weather was magnificent: warm days followed by cool nights and more rain than I associated with plains country. Cut assured me the Thunder-Being, Wakinyan, was busier than usual.

  One day Cut and I hauled my boodle to the spot he selected for my cabin. No decision had been made by the council, but I believe he understood I needed reassurance, and this was his way of providing it… plus we gained a little privacy. Little Eagle or Otter or someone else usually dogged our footsteps.

  Trees are scarce on the plains except around rivers and creeks and mountains. The two worlds merged in this little piece of heaven on earth. Three pine-covered hummocks anchored a small forest straggling off to the northeast on the trail of a fair-sized brook. That stream, which in later years bore the name Strobaw’s Crick on military maps, was eternal, running with pure, spring-fed water four seasons of the year.

  The meadow, hemmed on three sides by the hills, opened to the south with a view of the Yanube about a third of a league distant. A game trail or Indian path rode the edge of a tree line between the river and the mead. It was an ideal homesite, flat with a slight drainage toward the distant river. One deep, ugly draw crept from the northern hill into the flatland, marking where the creek once flowed before changing course.

  Cut, bearing a burning brand, entered a large grotto by means of a hole screened by bushes on the near face of the north hill. My love, clad only in his loincloth, was goose-fleshed from the chill, as the temperature in the cave was regulated by a frigid spring arising at one end to seep from the cave and join the creek within fifty paces of where I intended to build the house. The water was pure, perfect for domestic needs. This would be our cool room for hanging meats and preserving all manner of root vegetables. There was a tiny entrance on the far side of the hill, opening out onto the forest.

  Emerging from the cavern by this smaller entrance, Cut grasped my hand and led
me like a swain to a thick grove of trees. Without words, he laid me atop my abandoned clothing and relieved his Cupid’s cramp by covering me with an eagerness that matched our first couplings. I discovered anew the strength and power of Dark Warrior. Had I but possessed a woman’s vagina, he would surely have lined me with child. We lay quietly after our exertions, enjoying an intimacy we shared with no other human on earth.

  Our need sated, I examined a few of the items recovered from the trader’s wagons before moving my goods into the hollow hill for safekeeping. The medicine bag held a truly impressive variety of remedies and restoratives.

  The money canvas contained a veritable fortune in crowns and doubloons and pieces-of-eight and Spanish dollars and Portuguese half-joes and a host of others that would require time and consideration to calculate. Most were gold, fewer were silver, and very little was copper, the reverse of the usual case. The bag also held paper money, some issued before the reevaluation of 1780. There was new tenor and old tenor, 1781 Maryland red, and currency I did not even recognize. Then, of course, I retained the remaining gold pieces of my heritage. There was sufficient to wallow in velvet for eternity.

  While fascinating and stimulating to the imagination, these were, of course, the least valuable items. The tools and the barrels of nails and other unrecovered wealth were what I hungered to reclaim from the wagon.

  Back in the meadow, I plotted my pan, the foundation to the house. It grew from a simple cabin into a structure to accommodate my store of goods, a double house with one side mirroring the other. The east porthern would be our living quarters. The west would have a large keeping room where Cut’s friends could swap stories. Tired of my prattling, Cut dragged me to the horses. As we made our way back to the village, I released some of my spleen.