by Mark Wildyr
“Teacher,” he greeted me solemnly. “I see you have found new grief.”
“Butterfly, my wife,” I said. I assumed he knew of my wedding, as he seemed to know much of the happenings at Teacher’s Mead.
“So I heard. I came to offer my sorrow to bolster your own.”
“Thank you. Can you stand some coffee?” I asked, shivering.
“Ugh.” He made a face. “But you need some. This is not a day for shirtsleeves. Here.” He threw out an arm and enfolded me in his buffalo robe. “Hah! There was a time when such an embrace would have inflamed me. Well, perhaps there is something of it left. When I get back to my fire, I will give my win-tay a tumble and think about you.”
He glanced around the interior of the house curiously. “We are moving tomorrow. We waited longer than usual because one of our women was ailing, so now we must hurry.” He grimaced over his cup of coffee and added an ungodly amount of sugar. “Uhm. Better,” he announced. “I came because I heard of your trouble. That one”—he inclined his head toward the graveyard—“had great misfortune in her life. The whole countryside admires how you and Cut Hand faced the Sioux in their own camp and tracked down her rapists. Then to find happiness with you only to have her life snatched away.”
“Thank you for your thoughts. Cut Hand will appreciate them as well.”
“I do not speak them for him. I speak them for my friend, Bil-lee.” He paused a moment for a taste of his coffeed sugar. “Have you talked to any of the army men since they were here at snowmelt?”
“No, I’ve spoken to no one.”
“I traveled to the eastern fort this summer, the one they call Ramson. This war with the Mex-i-cans did not take place. The white men in that place they call Tex-as fought them off without help from the American army.”
“I would never have guessed it.”
He sipped again. There was more to come. “They say this big officer at Fort Yanube, this ma-jor, is being sent away. The new chief at Fort Yanube will be the one with two bars.”
“Captain Jamieson? But he’s too inexperienced for a command like that!”
“It is true, Bil-lee. He will get the yellow leaf on his shoulder.”
“Who will take his place?”
“Someone with a strange name like Sniff.”
“Smith?” I was dismayed. “But he’s an incompetent!” My God! James would be under his command.
Carcajou frowned. “This is not good news?”
“No, it is not. Major Wallston was a seasoned officer. Captain Jamieson is a decent man but doesn’t have the depth… the experience. Smith is a bigot of the worst stripe, if I am any judge. He will now be in charge of the patrols, and I don’t trust his judgment.”
“Then we must be careful.”
“Yes. May I ask a favor?” His expression told me he did not like what I was going to ask. “Cut Hand should know of this. If I write him a letter, can you see it is delivered before the snowfall comes?”
He made no reply for a minute. “I will do this because you have shared information gathered for the Yanube with the Pipe Stem. Do not ask it often.”
When I placed the note to Cut in Carcajou’s hand, he turned it over thoughtfully. “Cut Hand can understand what you wish to tell him from this scratching?”
“He learned to read and write a long time ago. I can teach you, as well. It would be good to know such things when dealing with the white man.”
“Prolonged exposure to you, Bil-lee, might wear out the bum of my win-tay.” At the door, he turned serious again. “I always remember what you tell me, Teacher, and many of your predictions are beginning to reveal themselves. For the first time in my life, the Pipe Stem took their buffalo within sight of the Yanube. And the Sioux were not far removed. The pressure on the land is growing. My cousins, the Lakota, tell of many kinsmen coming from back east confirming things you explained to us. I am sorry you are such a prophet, because what you see in the future is not to our advantage.”
“Carcajou, if I could prevent it, I would.”
“This I believe. Goodbye, my friend. Your message will be delivered.”
THE FIRST norther, a blue blizzard to match my mood, breached my protective hillocks to seize the Mead in its grip as I wintered alone for the first time. Never had a season seemed so long. I rapidly exhausted the diversion of reading. The storms came fast and furious, and I wore a fresh trail through the snow every day to talk to the livestock and check on their condition. I took to mucking out the barn daily although the snow was too deep to carry the waste far, so I spread it over the garden area, hoping the thing would not be overdone and burn up the crops next year.
Threshing was cold-weather work, so I dragged out my grains and went to work with a wooden flail until sweat poured from me despite the cold. I brought all the dogs inside for comfort, but they were not broken to the indoors and created such a mess that I booted them all out except for House. He had a modicum of manners, and I needed company.
The full weight of the season was not yet descended upon me before I was driven outside by sheer boredom. Bearing a rifle and with the shotgun strapped to my back, I donned rackets to escape four walls and beavered down, setting traps liberally and harvesting an abundance of prime blue pelts.
Chess and checkers played with oneself leave something lacking. I held solitary conversations, which I found quite witty and enlightening. In truth, some of my personal philosophy found voice during that long winter. I began a journal, writing down with the utmost honesty what had happened to me on this sojourn through life, my actions, my thoughts, my fears, my emotions—my nagi, as Cut would say. Perhaps someday some soul might be more enlightened about men with different tastes because of it.
The wolves became almost a pleasant diversion. I spent many a day and night tracking them, daring their ambush and almost falling prey to it more than once. West, my faithful guardian of the barn and the graveyard, grew bolder than was wise and paid with his life. The leader of the wolf pack fell to my anger in recompense. The feral beasts were not so aggressive after his loss.
Nights were worse than days as my thoughts were free to roam. I missed Butterfly. Cut weighed heavily on my mind. His masterful body and wonderful intellect and joyful spirit were so real to me, I could almost reach out and touch him. Once or twice I pictured him lying with me while I masturbated. At other times James leapt to mind, so different from Cut, yet so giving of his love.
The remainder of the winter was spent training House to assume the responsibility for the west side of the clearing. He was too old by this time to rename, so now South guarded the south, East protected the east, North stalked the north, and House prowled the west, which offended my sense of logic.
The thaw came without my realizing it. One day I observed a sun dog, one of those pale, rainbow-like spots between clouds that often herald impending changes in the weather, and the next morning woke to the sound of dripping water. After assuring that my spigots had not failed in the bathing room, I opened the door stark naked and observed icicles slowly disappearing from the eaves. That dripping sound was snow dissolving from my roof. Of course, the warmth of the house sped the process, but even the snow load on the trees was not so great, and the crick shed its skim of ice, running free and clear.
Suddenly realizing I had become water-shy, I scrubbed a winter’s worth of dirt and dried sweat from my body and set to work scraping off a lengthy beard, seriously considering adopting a moustache. Yet I admired the clean, clear features of the Yanube men so much that I ruthlessly cut the hairs from my face. Would that I could accomplish this task as they did, with an Indian razor, two shells used for plucking or, more recently, the metal tweezers I brought from Yawktown. These tools were now highly prized trade items. Then I opened the house to the cold and aired out the close, musty odor of winter.
My joy was unwarranted. It would be weeks before the People returned. But I at least saw an end to my stark isolation. The snows had been abundant that winter, so the river flowed deep and an
gry, well beyond its normal run. I took to roving the northern bank, anxious for some sign the abatement was underway, but my field was turned and ready for planting ere a single Yanube scout appeared on the opposite bank to let me know by signing that all was well with the band.
A few days later, I traveled a distance to the southeast to check a good walking place where the stream was wide and shallow and lined with a shelf of hard rock. Even there the water was too swift for safe passage. As I tested the current with a few steps into the river, Long swung his head, ears rotating wildly. Immediately I brought him around. Some fifty yards away stood a party of six mounted Indians. Stone Knife lifted his hand to show it was empty and urged his pony forward.
“Hau, Teacher,” he greeted me. “I see you have survived the winter.”
“And you, too, my friend. How goes the hunting?”
“Too many two-leggeds. Too few four-leggeds,” he grumbled. “But we do not hunt. We were on our way to see you.”
“Me? How can I help?”
“There is trouble. Your words as they have been repeated to me have always counseled peace. Because of the respect you have earned, I heeded those words. Now my heart is stirred to anger. As once you and Cut Hand came to me, I now come to you.”
“Tell me what has happened.”
“Soldiers followed three hunters to my fire saying they tracked men who killed a settler family close to the fort. They brought a white man who was there when the attack took place. I allowed them into my village, believing they came honorably. This white man claimed the three returning hunters were the killers. But none had been absent from camp long enough to travel that far, Teacher. Mine was a squaw camp since most of the men were away hunting, and I watched like a helpless woman while the soldiers took those three men away to Fort Ramson. One was my son.”
“I have no influence at that fort, Stone Knife, but I will go there and argue for them. Have your scouts found any trace of the men the army tracked?”
“No. If there was a trail, the soldiers’ passing covered it.”
“Can you find where they might have eluded the troops?”
He looked at me squarely, a rare thing among these people. “There is no such sign.”
I nodded toward the party. “Are these five men of standing in your band?”
“Yes, they are of my council.”
“Ask each to come to me in turn to tell me what he saw with his own eyes. That way I will have testimony to present to the soldiers.”
I DEPARTED the Mead armed, provisioned, and carrying a portion of my gold coins. The buckboard held all the furs taken that winter. Two of Stone Knife’s Lakota helped me ford the river using rawhide ropes to secure the wagon from the current. They then shadowed me on my hundred-mile trip.
A town similar to Yawktown had grown up around the military post. First I found the fur trader and spent far too long dickering over the price of my peltry to establish my bona fides. The wagon, loaded with provisions for my return, was housed in the livery stable. I opened an account at the bank, depositing a few gold coins after reaching the firm understanding any withdrawal would be in like specie.
I ate at a restaurant, took a room at an inn, and paid a likely-looking youngster to carry a written message to the fort commandant asking to see him the next morning. He returned with a note that Major Wallston would receive me at ten on the morrow. That was a pleasant surprise and a stroke of luck. Major Wallston knew me from Fort Yanube, freeing me from wasting precious time proving I was no feather merchant.
The major was downright pleased to greet me. His office in this post seemed a little larger, but his staff was made up of tin soldiers, green Point officers eager to prove their mettle. Wallston appeared embarrassed by their enthusiasm.
While I am no pettifogger trained in the law, I presented Stone Knife’s case calmly and logically. The major questioned the lieutenant who led the platoon in pursuit of the miscreants, and I was dismayed at the youth and inexperience of the man. As questioning continued, it became apparent the platoon was as unseasoned as he. Its sergeant was a recent transfer from a post in New York State.
The major sent for the civilian who identified the three Sioux, but he was nowhere to be found. It required two days to locate the man pilfering the homestead that had been attacked. When the troops came upon him, he and another man were digging holes around the burned barn. By the end of my fourth day at Ramson, Major Wallston knew the truth.
These two pimps had heard rumors of gold hidden on the homestead of this unfortunate family. They murdered the farmer, his wife, and fry, torched the buildings, and raised an alarm at the fort, claiming an Indian attack. One of the whoresons, acting as a volunteer scout, led a troop of dragoons up a well-used trace until he chanced upon the trail of a hunting party that took him right into Stone Knife’s camp. The young officer who fell for the hoax did not know how lucky he was to still be wearing his hair. The major explained it to him in great detail.
Three relieved young men strode out of the fort’s gaol still cloaked in the impressive dignity of a tribe of mighty warriors. Two of them rode in the back of the buckboard. The third took his place beside me on the driver’s bench. I came to understand before the trip was out this stern-faced man was Stone Knife’s son. The trio was solemn and reserved until we camped the first night beside an old buffalo lick. Then enthusiasm at being free surfaced, and they became happy youngsters, joking with one another, tickling about things that happened during their confinement.
Stone Knife met us a day’s journey from his camp. His joy at recovering his young men almost cracked his stolid demeanor. He thanked me profusely and advised that the Yanube would arrive at the river on the morrow.
With this news, I hurried home to prepare for my people’s return. My people! They were that in every sense of the word. These were my family, my friends, and my foundation upon this Earth.
Anticipating the crossing Cut would choose, I awaited the appearance of the first scouts. A lone warrior splashed across the still-swollen walk and greeted me with a great shout. It took a second to realize it was Lone Eagle. The youth had sprouted another inch and filled out to the proportions of a fully grown man. I wondered if he had taken a wife and asked about the matter.
“No,” he replied uneasily. There was a tale to be told there, I surmised. “But it is time I start thinking about it,” he went on. “A man needs a good wife.”
My joy was unbounded when I raised Cut Hand’s tall form astride Arrow. Because the water was still high, Cut stationed warriors along the walk to help the young and the old across. As the Conestoga hove into view, he caused ropes to be affixed to the wagon against the eventuality it might slide downstream. I took inordinate pleasure and pride in Otter’s skill in handling the contraption. All made the crossing without event.
The site of the summer camp was about two leagues from Teacher’s Mead. There was no time for visiting with friends until the village was set up. Hunting parties went out immediately. The horse herd was driven to a broad bench above the river, where herdsmen gentled them until the beasts knew they were home. Horse herders inspected mares to see if any were ready to drop colts prematurely. The People’s horses were well tended.
The Conestoga needed some tightening of bolts and minor repairs, but Otter was already working on those. He was taller, maybe even a spit broader through the shoulder, but the face was still that of the man-child I held dear. He greeted me solemnly, breaking into an uncontrollable smile when I complimented him on the condition of the horses and the care he lavished upon the wagon. He indicated he would be home tomorrow night.
Home! Teacher’s Mead was unquestionably his home. No child in this band was without family, but Otter came as close as any. His mother and father crossed the divide long before I came to live among them. Likely Otter looked upon me as his closest kin. He’d spent most of his time with me since I met him on the south side of the Yanube with Bear Paw and Lone Eagle and the others five years back in the
spring of ’32.
By nightfall things settled down, so conversation was possible. Cut sent for me to take my customary place on the blanket at his right and asked about the news I sent in my letter. He was relieved to learn of Major Wallston’s posting to Fort Ramson, and intrigued by my successful representation of Stone Knife. As did I, he considered this full payment of the debt we incurred to the Lakota.
Later, in private, Cut resolved the mystery of Lone Eagle’s disquiet over the question of a wife. The young man had been caught dallying with a girl and eased her father’s sense of outrage with three ponies. Now he was virtually impoverished.
The young warrior was sitting on my porch, impatient for my arrival, when I finally reached the Mead. I bit back a teasing remark about his recent encounter. Still, he took offense.
“So you think it’s funny?” he demanded as I lit a lamp in the fronting room.
“Am I laughing?”
“On the inside you are, and some of it leaked out onto your mouth. She’s the one who wanted it. Felt me up until I couldn’t stand it anymore! I didn’t even get it in her. They found us before I even got it in!” He was offended to pay for something he hadn’t enjoyed.
“You’re not the first young man in that condition.”
“I had to give up all my ponies! What am I going to do? Cut Hand says not to raid for horses anymore. I’ll never get enough animals to pay for a bride. I’m ruined! All I’ve got left is my war horse.” He meant his riding pony.
Recalling something I’d heard while at Yawktown a year back, I told him of a herd of feral horses south of the Little Island Mountains.
“I’ll go tomorrow! I’ll come back rich!”
“You’ll come back with a lot of work ahead of you. Those horses are wild. They won’t be worth much until you break them.”
Ever the conniver, he came up with an answer. “I’ll trade two for one. Two wild horses for a riding pony.”
“Sounds good, if you can catch enough horses and find enough dunces.”
