Instantly all three whirled. Without question they headed on the dead run for White Fingernail.
No Name, running with an easy lightness, was by far the swiftest and was the first to reach White Fingernail.
“Where are they?” No Name grabbed for his bow and quickly strung it. He tossed his quiver over his back. “Where, friend?”
White Fingernail pointed to the ravine east of them, the same one Redbird had crept up earlier. Even as No Name looked, four Indians with horn-like scalp locks and mounted on painted red ponies, erupted from the ravine. In an instant they were splashing through the river and heading for Redbird’s horses. They shrilled cupped yells. “Oh-ow-ow-ow!” Then out from behind their backs fluttered dark buffalo robes.
No Name leaped on Lizard. He grabbed the reins from White Fingernail and wheeled Lizard around. “Take Swift As Wind, friend!” he cried. “We must head off the enemy before they stampede the herds.”
White Fingernail hesitated. “But Swift As Wind is your father’s favorite horse.”
“My father will not care. Hokay-hey! Let us hurry. The sun shines.”
White Fingernail vaulted aboard Swift As Wind in one bound.
“Come, friend!” No Name cried over his shoulder. “We are good-looking, we are young, we are of the right age to die! Our fathers will cry wonderfully over our dead bodies!” He touched heel to flank. Lizard leaped forward.
Lizard seemed to know exactly what was wanted of him and headed for the gap between the rushing Pawnees and the two herds, veering slightly to the left as he went. No Name plucked an arrow from over his shoulder, fitted it to the bowstring, aimed and fired all in one motion at the nearest Pawnee. The Pawnee ducked; from nowhere came up with a bullhide shield. The Pawnee managed to get his shield set slantwise just as the arrow hit. The arrow glanced off and tumbled harmlessly end for end to the ground. Before the Pawnee could bring around his own bow and arrow, No Name fitted on another arrow and let fly. Then as rapidly as possible, one after the other, like a milkweed pod suddenly spitting winged seed all in one burst, he shot off a half dozen more arrows. Each time the Pawnee, riding his bounding pony with perfect ease, warded off the arrows with his shield. The Pawnee laughed big white teeth at him.
No Name raged. He became a wolf on a horse. He kicked Lizard hard in the flanks. “Horse,” he cried, “charge them! You have a new nose. It is good. It is wakan. We are safe from the arrow. Run.”
Lizard dug in. His flexing back quarters almost touched ground on each jump.
The Pawnee let fly a line of arrows in turn. They came at No Name like grass spears shot by a whirlwind. They came straight for him at first, then at the last moment, miraculously, he and the horse passed ahead of them.
“Hi-hi-hi!” No Name cried. “Charge!”
Another surge and Lizard carried him almost on top of the Pawnee. The Pawnee, seeing them loom up, ducked down and slid around to the off-side of his pony. Only a heel and an elbow showed. The two horses bounded along furiously. Their hooves thudded hard on the grassy turf. Lizard ran in a fury, black mane snapping. The red pony ran in terror of its life, an eagle plume decoration fluttering in its tail.
At last No Name could see the ducking Pawnee’s scalp lock. He fitted yet another arrow to his bow and let fly. The arrow flashed down, swift as a sun mote. It stuck into the Pawnee’s neck. The Pawnee stiffened, held yet a moment, then, falling, hit the ground. He rolled, back over belly and belly over back, legs flopping grotesquely, a moccasin flying off. And suddenly doubling up, he lay still. It was No Name’s first kill.
“Yi-yi-yi!” No Name shrilled. “It is good to die young! I must think of the children and the helpers at home!’’ He waved his bow high. “Charge!” he cried. “Hokay-hey! There are many more!”
With his knee he turned his horse for the next Pawnee. As he did so, fitting arrow to bow, he saw White Fingernail haul up short, leap off, and touch the dead Pawnee with his bow and scalp him. “Ai!” No Name cried, “my friend has made the first coup! Well, he already has had his vision and it is his right.’’
Lizard began to rage like a wolf himself. With his strange nose and his bared flashing teeth, he looked more like a demon alligator than a galloping horse. Four great leaps and they were on top of the second Pawnee. So ferocious was their charge that the Pawnee quailed, closing his eyes in fear. The Pawnee’s arrow slipped from his bow and with a choked yip, he bent down and tugged his horse around and away. The Pawnee had thought to make his red horse impervious to enemy arrows with wakan yellow paint spots. But the yellow spots only made his horse easier to follow in the whirling rush of dust and tails. Quartering across, No Name found himself directly over the humped-up back. No Name let fly. His arrow passed completely through the Pawnee.
“Yeh-he-toe!” No Name cried. “It is good to die before one is old and good for nothing.”
Again No Name saw White Fingernail pause, get off, count the first coup on a fallen Pawnee and scalp him.
The remaining Pawnees had enough. They folded away their stampeding robes and quickly veered off to the south, across the River of the Double Bend and beyond over the blue prairies.
No Name reined up. He looked back. The yelling and waving of the robes had just barely started the two horse herds in motion. They were trotting, wild heads up, tails lifted. No Name quickly turned his horse to head them off on the right. He saw White Fingernail whirl around behind him to head them off on the river side. Riding swiftly, singing low soothing words, they soon had the herds in control.
Redbird and Speaks Once came stalking up. Their wild black eyes burned with excitement.
“You have done well, my sons!” Redbird cried, lifting his hands in blessing.
“Ai! The Pawnees are cowards this day,” Speaks Once said. “They have even left their dead behind.”
“My sons, the Yanktons are a great people today.”
After some more excited talk, Speaks Once had a question to ask. “Ae,” he said, “but who gets the Pawnee ponies?” Nearby stood two red ponies, heads down, reins caught underfoot.
“Your son shall have them both,” Redbird said. “White Fingernail struck the first coup twice.”
White Fingernail beamed from the back of Swift As Wind.
“You have ridden well, my son,” Redbird said, taking hold of Swift As Wind’s bridle. The mare still stood puffing from the hard run. She was streaked with sweat.
“She was well trained, my father,” White Fingernail said.
Redbird looked from Swift As Wind to Lizard and back again. Then he clapped hand to mouth. “Ai!” he cried, “see, Lizard hardly breathes. Yet Swift As Wind is winded.”
It was true. No Name had already noted it. The slitting of the nose had been a good thing.
5
No Name did not learn what had happened to Circling Hawk’s offer of ten ponies until sometime after he returned to his father’s lodge. No Name was painting his face for the victory dance at the edge of the camp, when he suddenly heard loud talk in Owl Above’s tepee.
“You want to be rich,” Full Kettle cried, “you want many horses. Well, a great man’s mother comes with an offer of many horses, as many as the fingers of your hands, enough to begin the new herd you want, and yet you choose to remain as poor as the grasshopper.”
“My daughter has told me that she does not fancy Circling Hawk,” Owl Above said quietly. Owl Above was one of those who thought it disgraceful for a husband to fight with his wife. “I have said.”
“Hah! And what does she know about what is good for her?”
“My daughter has told me that he has warts all over his face.”
“Warts all over his face?” Full Kettle cried. “Then what you have all over your behind are the rotten sit sores of a lazy dog!” “My daughter says she does not want Circling Hawk.”
“A brave man who will keep the pot full of meat in our old age,” Full Kettle cried, “and he is chased away.”
“My daughter does not want Circling Ha
wk.”
“Who will fill the pot?”
“We must think of how our daughter feels about him.”
“Hah! this is what comes of having a poor stud of a man for a husband. Hah! if a bull moose were to lose his road and come and stand before you in the path, he would have to fall over dead for you to kill him.”
At last Owl Above had enough. He sprang up roaring. “Where is my warclub? I see that someone who lives with me must be beaten again!”
With that No Name quickly ducked out of sight behind a red rock.
That night the Yanktons celebrated. There were kill talks all over the camp.
Two bloody scalps dangled from a pole beside a big jumping bonfire. All the women took turns reviling them. The wrinkled old women were especially violent. Shrill with exultation and terror both, they yowled obscene oaths, cried down the wrath of the Dark Ones upon the mothers of the dead, called upon the sun and the moon to utterly destroy the Pawnee people.
But it was when the bodies of the two dead Pawnees were dragged into camp that the wild gloating of the withered hags hit its highest peak. They mutilated the bloody dusty carcasses, disemboweling them, cutting off the fingers and toes, dismembering the arms and legs. Hard Bones, widowed daughter of grandfather Wondering Man and sister of Redbird, inflicted the ultimate insult. She cut off the privates of the dead men, spat upon them, watered over them in public, roasted them to a crisp in the fire, then tossed them into outer darkness for the coyotes to fight over.
Around and around the women danced, the old ones, the young maidens, the little girls. The braves meanwhile stood watching them, smiling, awaiting their turn to take over the stage. The little boys, watching their fathers, also stood back and looked on with smiles.
No Name’s eyes were on Leaf. He was pleased to see that compared to the others, especially his aunt Hard Bones, she danced and sang with decorum. Dressed in her best, soft white doeskin glistening with quillwork, she moved shy and birdlike on the outer edge of the hopping dancers. She avoided his look, smiling a little to herself.
Off to one side, scowling on a red boulder together, were Leaf’s father and mother, Owl Above and Full Kettle. They and Circling Hawk, who also sat glowering to one side, seemed to be the only Yanktons in camp not enjoying the victory dance.
No Name became gradually aware of a hand slipping in under his robe. The hand was warm. It was his father’s.
“Yes, my father,” he said, turning, “what is it?”
“It is an old thing. It grieves me that my son has not been given his new name.”
“I also grieve, my father.”
Redbird spoke in a gently chiding manner. “And yet my son is brave enough to kill two Pawnees.”
“The horses were there to be saved, my father. Your son did not first prepare himself to be brave.”
“Many there are who first prepare themselves to be brave but who afterwards discover they are cowards.”
“My father, surely you know that one cannot trust a leader who has not yet had a vision?”
Redbird’s voice sharpened a little. “My son, this night Speaks Once will be a proud father. It will be because his son struck first coup on an enemy that another killed for him. Speaks Once will give his son a new name.”
“But, my father, surely you jest. Killing does not count for much. It is the coup that comes first. White Fingernail has had his vision and therefore it is his right to count coup.”
Again Redbird spoke with a taunting edge in his voice. “I see that White Fingernail still has all of his arrows.”
“My father, it is good for the band that such deeds are celebrated by someone. The band needs the glory.”
“Well spoken. Yet I know one who would give his son a new name also.”
“What is there to be done, my father?”
Redbird sighed, and at last his hand slipped off No Name’s arm.
Presently the camp singers and drummers came out of the shadows. One of them hit a big drum, once, loud. The boom instantly silenced the gyrating yelling women. Painted faces streaked with sweat and dust, looking well pleased with themselves, they withdrew to the edge of the circle.
Speaks Once, dressed only in a clout, with honor feathers in his hair and rattles on his moccasins, walked up carrying the skull of a dog. With solemn ceremony, he placed it at the foot of the scalp pole, its chalky nose pointed toward the east. Then he stepped back, held up his hand, and called out in a loud voice, “My son was a brave man today. It is because of this that the council of elders has voted to give him two honor feathers. I am glad. I see that everyone has painted his face. I see that some of the mothers have gone to cook a dog for the feast. I see the old chiefs have cut the tobacco and mixed it. It is good. Let us have a big dance and then the feast in honor of my son. I have said.”
“Houw! houw!”
The big drum boomed again, this time twice, very quickly. A voice rose, more in cry than in song, and instantly the center of the camp began to bristle with feathers and lances. Half-naked painted bodies moved en masse around the great bonfire. Elkhorn whips lashed about. Shields, gaily painted and hung with dyed feathers, revolved around and around. The braves were all bronze birds. They danced lightly. Their feet lifted on the beat. They pranced, hovered, hardly touched ground. They floated. Their shadows flitted across the tops of the glowing tepees in the background. Some cried like crows, some howled like wolves, some bellowed like bulls, some shrilled like eagles. Huge round feather suns turned on their buttocks. Shooting rays glowed around their heads. Dust swirled up in the red light. The red fire and the red dust and the red bodies became as one. Rattles buzzed like maddened diamondbacks. Singers yowled like hoarse magpies. Certain of the old women stood in a chorus off to one side trilling old war songs in falling quavering accents.
Stubby White Fingernail was in his glory. His face was daubed with the black paint of triumph. A bustle of magpie tail feathers, his medicine, hung from his seat, so that, waggling with each move he made, he resembled a squat bird hopping from carcass to carcass. He danced solo. He danced with such fury, became so pent up, he at last even danced in his blackened face. His head bobbed convulsively, his started eyes bulged in and out, his nostrils opened and closed in steady spasms, his thick lips writhed rhythmically.
At last, coming out of it, he told of the great deed. He danced up to No Name, pointing at him four times, and then in pantomime recounted No Name’s battle with the Pawnee, how No Name rode his horse Lizard, how he bent his bow, how his arrows found their mark.
White Fingernail next danced up to the white skull of the dog at the foot of the scalp pole. Three times he danced up to it and made as if to strike it with his lance, with the drummers and singers building up a crescendo of sound each time, and then, the fourth time, did strike it. Instantly silence fell over the camp. Only the fire talked and the river laughed.
White Fingernail’s chest swelled with a great breath. Then, touching the topmost scalp hanging from the pole with his lance, he pronounced, “I have overcome this one.”
It was a true claim and no one spoke up to deny it.
White Fingernail touched the second scalp with his lance. “I have overcome this one.”
It was also a true claim and again no one spoke up to deny it.
White Fingernail next told how he had been the first to spot the Pawnee raiders, how he had whistled the bluejay call across the meadow to warn Chief Redbird and his father Speaks Once and his friend No Name, how No Name came running, how No Name gave chase, how No Name killed two of the enemy, how he, White Fingernail, came riding after and struck the first coups.
Lifting his face to the darkness overhead, he sang his song:
“Hohe! have you seen the Pawnee?
Friend, they have gone.
They were afraid of our arrows.
Hohe! have you seen the enemy?
Friend, they are cowards.
They have left their dead behind.”
“Houw! houw!”
He sang his song a second time, with the drummers and singers joining in, and the chorus of old women singing the tremolo in falling wavering accents.
Then Speaks Once stepped forward, thick lips screwed up proud, bustling, clam shell ornaments jingling, skunktails fluffing at his heels. He too struck the white skull of the dog with his lance four times. Again, except for the crackling bonfire and the laughing river, there was solemn silence.
“Friends,” Speaks Once said, “you have heard my son. You have heard his story. You have heard his song. Is there anyone to deny it? Others can speak. I will listen. I have said.”
The silence continued, full, intent. Black eyes glittered in the glowing firelight. Bronze forms stood enstatued in the red quartzite basin.
“No one steps forward to deny it. It is good.”
Speaks Once turned to Redbird sitting at the edge of the crowd and beckoned him to come forward. “Father,” Speaks Once said, “we ask this. Our son needs a new name. Will you give it?”
Redbird got to his feet and stepped up. With a grave air, he drew two feathers of the golden eagle from his belt. He held them up in the light for all to see. The bottom portion of both feathers were white, and the top brown, with the points tipped with the red down of a woodpecker. He turned each slowly. They glistened in the dusty red light.
“My son,” Redbird said, and he touched White Fingernail on the shoulder with one of the feathers.
White Fingernail knelt in the dust at the foot of the scalp pole. His hair, purposely left unbraided, flowed in two black streams down his back.
“My son,” Redbird said, “today you have made the Yankton people a great nation.”
“Houw, houw!”
“It is because you have done this for us that we now give you these.” Redbird thrust the two feathers into the youth’s hair at the back, setting them in a horizontal position. Then slowly, solemnly, he turned to the assembled tribe. “Friends, hear me. Our son has earned a new name. Today he struck first coup twice.” Redbird turned and looked down at the kneeling youth again. “My son, take courage. Your name is now Strikes Twice. Arise. Stand on your feet. I have said. Yelo.”
Conquering Horse Page 7
