Cut Hand

by Mark Wildyr

  “Buffalo Shoulder,” Cut greeted his clansman. “I see you have gotten yourself in trouble again.”

  Buffalo Shoulder shrugged as well as possible with his hands bound behind him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Hah,” Cut rejoined. “This officer tells me some wagons were burned and whites killed. If you tell me you have not done this thing, then I will fight for you.”

  “You know how it is. You get drunk, and somebody says let’s go have some fun. I never intended to harm those people.”

  “That was your intent, but what did you do? Did you kill?”

  Buffalo Shoulder’s chin shot up. “I was with them. What they did, I did.”

  “So for the pleasure of a drink, you put your village in jeopardy. Because of a drunken rout, I have the pride of your people lined up against these soldiers. Was it worth it, Buffalo Shoulder?”

  “You should have been with us. Then you would know, old friend.”

  “I was with my people taking care of my responsibilities. I was doing as a man should do, not throwing my life away.”

  “Go home, Cut Hand. Take my kinsmen with you. This is not your fight.”

  “That I will sadly do, my friend. I have a duty to them, and that duty does not drive me to throw away their lives for your foolishness.”

  “Then go and take care of our people. I will face what comes like a man. I don’t want to live if I can’t live like a man! When was the last time we raided for horses? When did we last count coup? When did we race through a camp and spread fear of the Yanube? This is no life for a man. I am finished with it.”

  Cut flinched. “Do you understand what they will do to you, brother? They will put a cord around your neck and hang you until the breath leaves your body. That does not sound like the way a man should end.”

  Buffalo Shoulder’s eyes narrowed as he replied, and I altered the faithfulness of my translation at that point. I spoke his words as “However they kill me, I will die like a man.” What he actually said was, “I will die like a man.”

  As Cut Hand turned Arrow and rejoined Bear Paw and Lone Eagle, I paused before Smith, hoping this military popinjay could understand plain English.

  “Report that the chief of the Yanube came to see for himself what happened here. He spoke with his clansman, Buffalo Shoulder, who admitted his part in the attack on the wagons. Cut Hand judged for himself the justice of what is going to happen and has honored your majestry. With a superior force at his back, he has shown himself a fair-minded man of peace. Someday, when someone needs to remember this, I pray you will be as honorable a man as he, Captain.”

  Disturbed by the arrogant, gloating sneer on the man’s coarse features, I took no comfort in believing my words were heeded. Angrily, I touched my hand to my hat brim and wheeled Long about. The four of us regained the rise and turned the line of Indians back toward the Yanube. It was a narrow thing. When the distant singsong death chants reached our ears, some of the younger warriors faltered until their chief continued on his path. Lone Eagle’s battle with himself over what was right in the matter was painfully obvious. He desperately wanted to go to the aid of Buffalo Shoulder, as did we all, especially Cut Hand, who had played with his friend in the dirt as a child.

  The shots, when they came, were fired like a volley. Cut looked at me pleadingly. With Lone Eagle at my side, I rode back to the crest. The four prisoners had broken away, deliberately courting death. All were cut down. Soldiers rolled the bodies into blankets as one of the army scouts watched us carefully.

  The council that night was a noisy and contentious affair. Buffalo Shoulder’s cousin decried the betrayal of his kinsman, declaring that honorable men were bound to ride to his aid. Were the Yanube so infected by fear of whites they could not stand up for their own? The furious young man’s words found favor with some in the assemblage. Cut Hand heard every last voice before he rose.

  “It was not I who betrayed my oldest friend, but he who was unfaithful to us. For five summers, we have spoken of this time in open council. Those who have ears have heard. Those who have a thirst for liquor or raiding or killing have heeded those callings rather than the logic of the changing world. Buffalo Shoulder put us all in danger. He got drunk and helped kill seven people who were no less human than we. He created a widow among us and a son with no father.”

  Cut Hand paused and took a shaky breath, his pain obvious. “We could have fought the soldiers, and perhaps Buffalo Shoulder would have fallen anyway. But Bear Paw and Lone Eagle and Badger and all the men with me would have faced the bullets of those dragoons, and many would have died. There would be more widows and more orphans. And when other Long Knives came for their revenge, this band would cease to exist.” Abruptly he sat down.

  “What does Teacher have to say?” someone asked from the back.

  “He is a white man! You know what he will say!” another voice spat.

  Surprisingly it was Lone Eagle who reacted to this slur. He sprang to his feet and threw back his shoulders self-consciously.

  “Teacher is a white man who is not a white man. His flesh is white. His blood is red, like ours. In his mind, he is one of us. He stood with us against our enemies. He warned us of what is to come. He is our teacher, our prophet. He tells things as they are. He lies for no one. He has warned us against his own, told us of their way of fighting and thinking. He has taken a wife from among us. He is my friend, and I will hear no unjust words against him!” He flopped down and grew silent. I was impressed by the eloquence of this nineteen-year-old warrior.

  Bear Paw rose. While not yet one of the round bellies, he was known as a serious man and had standing among the council.

  “I will say this, and then I am done with the matter. I know few things beyond doubt, but this one thing I do know. Cut Hand led us down the peaceful Red Road today. I would have taken the contentious Black Road and battled the Blue Coats, but I am thankful he was wiser than I. If he had not been, before the moon turned her back on us again, this village would be finished. Your bodies and the bodies of your children and your horses and your dogs would lie as fodder for the vultures and the rats and the skunks. The Yanube would exist no more. While I do not hold my own life too dear, I do those of my wife and my children and my family and my neighbors. Let no one doubt that Teacher is one of us. He has proved it many times. He killed for us. He provided weapons and ammunition for us. He hunted for us. But most of all, he is a counselor and a friend.”

  There did not seem to be much left to say after that, so the affair slowly broke up. Cut wanted to talk, causing us to invade Morning Mist’s lodge, where we drank more than we should have. Cut Hand relived his childhood with Buffalo Shoulder, and I listened as a friend should do while pain washed out of him like corruption from the pox.

  Lone Eagle and Otter were both at Teacher’s Mead when I fell off my horse in front of the steps. They lugged me inside and dumped me in bed, clothes and all. Sometime during the night, I was sick in the chamber pot.

  There were a few desertions from the tiospaye after Buffalo Shoulder’s death, although it was likely a positive development as most were hotheads. How futile and foolish that young man’s death had been. I prayed to Almighty God it would provide an object lesson for those who remained.

  Chapter 18

  ONE DAY, as Lone Eagle stood on the front of the steps of the Mead talking to two of his friends I caught myself examining his strong, wiry frame with the same list I experienced on the wild horse hunt. When he glanced up unexpectedly, I quickly turned aside to go take stock of the arms and ammunition in my small armory. Lone Eagle soon followed, giving me a long, insolent gaze but saying nothing. That evening, Otter and I ate alone. Lone Eagle went elsewhere.

  I was almost ready to retire when the young warrior arrived back at the Mead and asked to wash up. I lay flat on my back so as not to snatch glances of his fine body since he left the door to the bathing room open. When he strode out to comb his hair before my dressing mirror, my eyes betrayed
me. Lone Eagle was proud of many things, but none more so than his long black mane. Normally held in two braids, it hung below his shoulders when loose. I watched the play of muscles in his back and buttocks as he combed his glorious black crown into a shining mass.

  He paused to watch me through the mirror. Abruptly, he threw down the comb and walked naked to the bed. Slowly he drew back the covers and fell on me. I sought to push him away, but he resisted my insincere efforts.

  “No,” I said, but it was useless. I accepted him and was lost. He was relentless in pursuing what he wanted. His nineteen-year-old muscled body shuddered from the force of his release.

  Afterward, he studied me by the lamplight. “You are mine now, Billy,” he declared, using my name for the first time. “I have taken you to wife! I will tell the council tomorrow. You will do this with no one else. Not even when your army officer comes sniffing around next time. Do you hear me?”

  I would have laughed except it would hurt his pride. He was the young man giving instructions to his bride, and he expected they be followed to the letter. He might have a surprise or two coming, but not over the matter of fidelity. I had only the capacity to love one man at a time.

  The next day, I rooted around in a trunk trundled back with me when I returned to the Mead until I located what I was looking for. My scarlet garters and red shirt and brilliant scrivener’s ribbon looked good to my eyes. They felt better to my skin and refreshed my sense of who I was… near as much as my new husband’s constant attention. On my next visit to the village, no one commented on my return to the habit of yesteryear, but sly eyes scanned the colorful apparel, and smiles touched many lips. The People now knew the Red Win-tay walked among them again.

  He flanked me at least once daily from that night until it was time for the village to move. We were a week into the affair before he declared his love, although he was sincere in what he said. We fought often, but it mattered not. He always came to my bed expecting to exercise his husbandly rights. He never flagged in his efforts or in his enthusiasm.

  The big battle came over the winter move. He announced that I would join him on the trek and live in the village during the exodus. I adamantly refused. He threatened to beat me. I invited him to try. He seriously considered it before slinking out of the house and absenting himself until the middle of the night, when he returned to beat me in his own way… one that was acceptable.

  On the day of the move, he packed and mounted his pony, ready to splash across the Yanube with the rest of the band. I said goodbye to him in good cheer. He surprised me by leaning down and planting a kiss on my lips. Public displays of affection were not his way. Maybe he did love me.

  He was back two days later in the midst of a sudden snow squall. It was a mistake, but it was too late to send him south again. He was possessed by cabin fever within a week. I occupied his mind by drilling him in reading, writing, and arithmetic until he balked. Like Cut, he regarded chess as a game of war and worked until he mastered the rudiments. He read more than ever and even helped, albeit sparingly, with the womanly chores of cleaning, preparing food, and threshing grain.

  He made sexual demands at all hours of the day and night. No one ever inspected me as he did, not even Cut, peering into every crevice and crack, poking as if he were examining an old nag. For orneriness, I returned the favor and discovered I enjoyed the byplay. No portion of him was unattractive, even the baser parts. He was clean and healthy and comely all over.

  I was surprisingly happy with Lone Eagle that winter, even when he grew testy at the confinement. He took to the rackets, fair weather or foul, accumulating more furs than usual. The People were not fur traders in a serious way, relying on the buffalo for their requirements, but they took pelts when the occasion presented. Trapping required long hours and jaunts a considerable distance from the Mead, often in deep snow. I joined him from time to time but discerned he required time to himself. Besides, I needed to tend the household chores. Lone Eagle was a good trapper. Next spring, his cache would require a trip into town to exchange them for supplies.

  My new husband had a run-in with the wolf pack over a beaver and required the repair of his arm. He disdained my laudanum as I sewed his flesh in neat stitches with a boiled needle and thread. He neither flinched nor made a noise. He was all man, this warrior of mine. Afterward he showed his gratitude by flanking me enthusiastically.

  Shortly before the first thaw, the dogs warned of someone approaching. A party of four Indians appeared on the footpath at the far edge of the lea. Although they carried an ominous air—dressed in ragged buckskins and muttering among themselves rather than hailing the house—I ignored my better judgment and went outside to call off the dogs. They must have been unknowing there were two of us, because when I beckoned one man to approach, he shuffled forward and lunged at me once he drew near. His bear hug constricted me to the point I was unable to reach my skinning knife, and I would be in for it when the others joined the ruffian.

  I sensed rather than saw South attack one of the number, but another circled behind and threw a sour-smelling arm around my neck. Lone Eagle shot out one of my precious hand-blown quarrels, knocking the assailant from my back. The man pinning my arms to my sides fell backward, taking me with him. The force of our fall broke his hold, and I snatched my knife from its scabbard and flailed at the thuggish fellow repeatedly. He was so thoroughly bundled with deerskin and blankets, my blade was having trouble doing much more than inflicting minor cuts.

  When he twisted out from under me and grappled for a hatchet he’d dropped when he seized me, I got serious about the matter. My knife found the soft spot to the left of his spinal cord at the neck, and copious amounts of blood ran out of him, taking his life with it.

  Another raider fell to South and House. When I called the dogs off, the man was not dead, but probably would be if left to the elements. He refused treatment of his wounds and ran after the fourth man who deserted him. We lugged the two we killed a considerable distance from the Mead and left them for the wolves. The callousness of this act disturbed my conscience not at all. It was impossible to break the frost and bury them in this climate.

  After the killings, Lone Eagle exhibited the same arousal Cut experienced following acts of violence and thrummed me near unto exhaustion. Later, I made the mistake of fingering his magnificent chest. He looked at me closely and mumbled he required a moment of rest before trying again. To my dismay, he not only tried, he succeeded.

  LONE EAGLE was even happier than I when the first of the People splashed across the Yanube in the spring. Cut had waited longer than usual to return, allowing the water level to drop considerably. When I saw women carrying new babies, I understood. A number of the bucks had not waited until the cold winter months to line their women. I watched closely until Morning Mist crossed and observed she was not wearing a cradleboard. It occurred to me at that moment she was ill-named. Morning Mist was too beautiful an appellation for this sour sow.

  Cut paused to greet Lone Eagle and me. “I see you two did not kill one another over the winter.”

  “Thought about it,” Lone Eagle retorted.

  “He was not alone in that,” I said. “If he did not wield such a good hand with the broom and the mop, I might have considered it myself.”

  “Hah!” Lone Eagle regarded his chieftain closely to judge if he discerned I was teasing. He must have been satisfied on the matter, as he dropped it.

  I looked at the people streaming across the Yanube. “You’ve a surplus crop of babies. What’s the matter with Cut Hand? Have you lost your potency?” I immediately understood it was the wrong thing to say.

  Cut frowned angrily. Then his brow cleared. “We lost a child. It got all twisted up in her belly, and the midwife was unable to save it. It… it was a boy. The birthing hurt Morning Mist badly. Dog Fox may be our last.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It was a stupid joke.”

  He reached across the distance and laid a hand on my arm. “Don’t
worry, old friend. I know you would not hurt me on purpose.” He turned to my husband. “Did Teacher set you to your letters and numbers?”

  “Without end,” my spouse complained. “I put up with it as long as I could. He chased me out of doors in a snowstorm with his reading and writing and figuring. Landed me right in the middle of a wolf pack.”

  I turned serious. “There’s something you ought to know. Four Sioux attacked us before the winter broke its hold. We killed two and wounded one, but he and his accomplice got away. We didn’t recognize them, but if you get questions from any of the camps, you know what happened.”

  “Uh,” he acknowledged. “I missed you,” he added in a low voice. Lone Eagle bristled beside me. “Don’t get all stiff-legged,” Cut snapped. “I am telling a friend how I missed his friendship and wise counsel.”

  That night when Lone Eagle asked if I still loved Cut Hand, I replied honestly. “I will always love him. But I have grown and changed. I do not love him in the same way. You need not fear him or any other man,” I added, laying a hand on his smooth chest. “I am yours and yours alone for as long as you want me. I ask only one thing. When you are finished with me, tell me. Do not go slinking off to other beds and crawl back to mine.”

  “I have not done that to you,” he responded indignantly. “I told you, Billy. I love you. And my words are true. You said them back to me, and I believe them true as well. I have shown you my love the only way I know. Is that not enough?”

  “It is for me.” I stroked his silken skin. “But you are sometimes a mystery to me, as I am to you. Often, neither acts the way the other expects.”

  “That is true, wife,” he answered. “You are not as dutiful and obedient as you should be, but I have always forgiven you.”

  The next day Otter returned to claim his bed in the other side of the house. Lone Eagle was unusually vocal in his flanking that night to let the youngster know he was taking care of business.