by Jeff Guinn
Spotted Feather seemed to read Quanah’s mind. “Twice before, men tried to take her away from Medicine Water.”
“Oh?”
“They died.”
Quanah shrugged. “Medicine Water killed them?”
“Oh, no. Mochi did.”
“Mochi? How?”
Spotted Feathers grinned. “Are you staying for the contests?” Quanah nodded. “Good. Then you’ll see.”
• • •
THE CONTESTS STARTED when the sun reached its highest point. The villagers gathered, chattering happily. As senior camp chief, Gray Beard seated himself on a thick buffalo hide and gestured for Quanah and Isatai to join them. Isatai was in one of his closed-eyes-humming moods, but Gray Beard didn’t seem offended.
“First, we’ll watch the children,” he explained.
Small boys competed in short races, then fired blunt-tipped arrows at hide targets marked with red paint circles in the center. The winners received small prizes—beaded moccasins, small pouches of sugar purchased or purloined from sutlers before the band escaped the white agency. Then teenage boys still too young to raid with grown men had their competition—racing and target shooting and wrestling—since skill in hand-to-hand combat was crucial in combat. The winners here received the coveted right to go out on the next raids. They would hold horses and only fight themselves if the full-fledged Cheyenne warriors found themselves in desperate straits, but it was still an honor and the final step before official manhood. The youngsters who won this privilege strutted in front of the girls, who called out appropriate compliments.
“Now the real contests,” Gray Beard said. The crowd shifted into an elongated horseshoe shape, with the creek marking the other boundary about four long bowshots away. A tall stake was pounded into the ground about a yard before the creek’s bank, and hide targets were set up near the stake. Two dozen men, all painted in full battle colors, pushed through the horseshoe and stood proudly in front of where Gray Beard and his guests sat on the buffalo robe. Quanah knew that most of them were dog soldiers, elite warriors and obviously proud of their status. All of the men wore deerskin shirts and leggings. They stood straight, with knives and pistols on their belts, quivers and bows slung over their shoulders, and rifles in their hands. They all had good rifles, Quanah observed, mostly Winchesters, but also some Henrys like the one Quanah himself carried.
Medicine Water, the most impressive among them, stepped forward and said to Gray Beard, “We are ready.” Gray Beard nodded and Medicine Water snapped out commands. The dog soldiers laid their handguns, bows and arrows, and rifles to the side, drew their knives, and paired off.
“They’re going to fight without wounding,” Gray Beard said. “Their challenge is to demonstrate the skill to win and also the skill not to cut. There are occasional wounds, but only by accident. To win, one must disarm the other or at least get his knife to his opponent’s throat.”
The paired dog soldiers began to maneuver for position, flicking with their knives, lunging unexpectedly. Quanah couldn’t watch them all at once. His eyes were drawn to a pair scuffling off to the left. One was much larger, but the smaller man seemed to flow, every movement quick and smooth. There was something about him that seemed very familiar, and then Quanah realized with a start that it wasn’t a man, it was Mochi.
“W-what?” he stammered.
Gray Beard saw where Quanah was looking and laughed. “Mochi is one of our best fighters. In camp she is Medicine Water’s wife, but when we raid, she goes with the men.”
Among the People, women might fight if their camp was being overrun and there weren’t enough men left to oppose the enemy. But they were never allowed to take up weapons and participate in raids or full battles. “She’s going to be hurt,” Quanah protested. Mochi was steadily giving ground to her opponent, who swung his knife in hard arcs, barely missing her.
“Just watch,” Gray Beard suggested.
Mochi fell back a few steps at a time, and the man fighting her gained considerable forward momentum. But just as it seemed that Mochi had to lose, she ducked under a particularly vicious swipe of her opponent’s knife. Suddenly she was completely behind him. Before he could turn around, Mochi leaped on his back, wrapped her legs around his waist, and placed her knife against his throat. All the onlookers cheered, the camp women loudest of all, as the man dropped his knife in a gesture of surrender.
“That was very skillful,” Quanah said. Something dripped in his eye and he wiped his brow. He discovered that he’d broken out into a hard sweat.
“Indeed,” Gray Beard said. Isatai just hummed.
The winners broke into new pairs. Mochi won that round, too, and then the next, always defeating her opponents with speed and guile. Finally, there were just two remaining—Mochi and Medicine Water. When Quanah said that she surely wouldn’t fight her husband, Gray Beard said, “Mochi will fight anyone.”
It was thrilling to watch. Mochi continued moving adroitly, never presenting a direct target, but Medicine Water was quicker than her previous opponents and she couldn’t evade his knife thrusts as easily. They sparred, their blades missing by the smallest possible distance. Then Medicine Water’s arm was nicked, and a trickle of blood ran down his biceps to his hand. Mochi stopped, giving him time to determine whether the wound was serious. Medicine Water examined his cut and said he was fit to continue. He lunged forward, looking clumsy for the first time, and Mochi ducked underneath his arm to dart behind him. But it was a ruse. Medicine Water whirled and, as Mochi tried to leap on him, pressed his knife against her throat. She glared, then smiled and dropped her knife to the ground. Amid considerable cheering, husband and wife embraced. Then, arm in arm, they walked to where Gray Beard, Quanah, and Isatai sat. Even Isatai watched as they approached.
“Medicine Water wins,” Gray Beard announced. He stood up to congratulate the leader of the dog soldiers. Quanah stood too. He couldn’t resist looking at Mochi instead of Medicine Water, and she looked right back at him. Worn-out as she had to be from such extended, violent exercise, there was still something impudent in her gaze.
“You fought well,” Quanah said.
“It’s kind of the Comanche chief to say so,” she said. Her voice was musical. Still, Quanah noted the veiled insult. Surely, Mochi knew very well that, unlike the Cheyenne, the People did not designate formal chiefs. Her words were intended to remind him that he was just another warrior. Up close, with her hair piled atop her head instead of flowing down her back, he noticed a physical imperfection. Mochi had a scar on the left side of her neck. Somehow it made her even more alluring.
Quanah realized that Medicine Water knew he was staring at his wife. Forcing himself to look away from Mochi, he turned to her husband and said, “My congratulations to a great fighter.”
Medicine Water said, “I couldn’t let her beat me. Then she’d want to be in charge of our tipi. But she doesn’t fight badly, for a woman. So I’ll keep her.”
Gray Beard gave Medicine Water his prize, a butcher knife whose handle was decorated with intricate carving. “Now a race for the women,” he announced. Medicine Water went off with the other dog soldiers to put their weapons back in their tipis, but Mochi walked over to where several dozen women had lined up. At a command from Gray Beard, they sprinted toward the creek, racing around the stake near its bank and running back toward a finish line someone had scratched in the dirt. It wasn’t much of a contest. Mochi won easily. She came back to Gray Beard, finally breathing hard, and Quanah was transfixed by her breasts heaving underneath her shirt. He thought everything about her was magnificent, and he wanted her even more than he had when he first saw her washing clothes in the creek.
There was no prize for winning the women’s race. Gray Beard told Mochi that she had run well. Quanah said, “Congratulations again,” but Mochi ignored him. She looked at Isatai and asked, “Are you staying tonight for the dance?”
For once, Isatai forgot about the spirits and humming. “Yes, I’m staying,” he said.
Mochi told the fat Spirit Messenger, “I’ll see you there.” She shot a brief, arch glance at Quanah, then walked away.
• • •
ALL THE TRIBES DANCED—the Cheyenne, the Kiowa, the Arapaho. Even the cannibal Tonkawa danced, and so, of course, did the People. They danced for all sorts of reasons: to thank the gods for good hunting seasons, or to convince them to send game, or to take away cold and snow. There were dances to win the spirits’ favor for planned attacks, and others to simply allow men and women to have a good time. Everyone would sing and gyrate to drumbeats. Sometimes there was also music from wooden flutes. Satanta had begun the Kiowa tradition of blowing bugles taken from white soldiers. But all dances were community occasions. Sometimes all the scattered camps of tribes converged in one place, the Cheyenne and Kiowa often, but the People almost never.
The People were disgusted by the self-inflicted mutilation that was part of the Kiowa and Cheyenne sun dances. In these, always held over a multi-day period, a high pole was erected inside a roofless compound and hide thongs were secured to the pole. Then, usually after fasting, warriors used sharp bone or wooden skewers to attach these thongs to their chests and sometimes with help from others to their backs, driving the skewers behind the tendons and muscles beneath the skin. Then they would dance around the pole, leaning back hard so that, eventually, the skewers tore free, leaving great bleeding holes on their bodies. The hope was that the agony, plus light-headedness from hunger, would result in their seeing visions from the spirits. This made absolutely no sense to the People, who saw no advantage to their best fighters wounding themselves. If Gray Beard’s Cheyenne camp had held a sun dance, Quanah would have felt uncomfortable staying to watch it. His tribe abhorred the practice, and believed it was just one more way that the Kiowa and Cheyenne demonstrated their inferiority to the People.
But the dance that night was a simpler, safer one, simply an occasion when the villagers in Gray Beard’s camp celebrated the new, warmer season and their newfound freedom from the white agency. There was feasting, which Isatai especially enjoyed, and flute and drum music. Everyone dressed in their best. Many of the Cheyenne wore feathered headdresses. As the camp leader, Gray Beard had the most elaborate of all. It went partway down his back, double rows of eagle feathers held in place by hide lacing and beadwork, and then trailed behind him as he walked. Though warriors among the People preferred simpler headgear, usually buffalo hide caps with the horns still attached, Quanah made a point of complimenting Gray Beard on his impressive headdress.
“Something like this can be hard to keep on, especially in battle, but I wear it anyway because it is a sign to the other men that a leader is there among them,” Gray Beard said. “Eagles are hard to find sometimes, so when we do, we pluck all their feathers and store them until the next time they’re needed for headdresses; also for decorating shields and lances. Of course, we use other sorts of feathers for arrows.”
“It looks very fine,” Quanah said. “I know that you’re proud to wear it.”
Everyone gathered around a large campfire. Stewpots lined its edges. The food was distributed and the villagers and guests ate their fill. They washed down the meal with bottles of whiskey. On agency land, white traders always made liquor available even when food was scarce, and Gray Beard’s followers had built up a good supply before they left. Now the men drank the most, but the women had their share. As the whiskey warmed everyone’s veins, the dancing began. At first the men danced alone, acting out exploits from past battles, shaking their fists and howling. When it was the turn of the women, they swayed more gracefully. But gradually their gyrations grew more blatant. Their hips twitched toward the watching men. This was the signal for mixed dancing. The boldest women chose their male partners instead of waiting to be asked. Some wives chose men other than their husbands, but this was not considered in any way wrong. Flirting was part of the fun. It was understood by the men that they should not consider this an invitation to do anything more than dance.
Mochi, eyes shiny from drinking, made her way to the robes where Gray Beard, Quanah, and Isatai sat. Quanah’s heart leaped—she was going to choose him. But instead she held out her hand to Isatai, who grunted as he struggled to his feet. He tried to dance, and everyone laughed at the sight of his jiggling flesh. Mochi moved seductively beside him; Quanah, disappointed and jealous, still couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Isatai could dance only for a few minutes. Then he was out of breath and had to sit down. When he did, Mochi said to Quanah, “It’s your turn.” She took his hand and led him toward the fire. Her fingers felt very warm. They danced, mostly not touching, but sometimes Mochi brushed him with an arm or a hip, and when she did, Quanah’s whole body tingled. He tried to think of something smart to say, but all he could manage was “You run very fast.”
“Yes, I do.” Looking over Mochi’s shoulder, Quanah could see Medicine Water dancing with a woman, laughing with her and not paying attention.
“I’d like to run with you,” he said to Mochi, wondering how she would react.
She giggled, a marvelous sound. “You couldn’t keep up with me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. You want to race me. All right. The stake is still there, down by the creek.” To Quanah’s astonishment, Mochi shouted, “This Comanche wants to race me. Clear a path,” and the drums stopped beating and the flutes went silent as everyone else drew back. Medicine Water came over and clapped his wife on the shoulder. Obviously, he approved.
“My wife and the Comanche, to the stake and back,” Medicine Water said. “It will be a fine thing to watch.”
Quanah turned to Gray Beard. “I can’t do this. It wouldn’t be fair.”
The Cheyenne chief said, “Maybe not. We’ll see.”
Quanah tried to reason with Mochi. “I’m a man. You won’t be able to keep up. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Oh?” She slipped off her moccasins. “I like to run barefoot.”
Medicine Water said to Quanah, “Let’s wager, if you’re so confident. You rode a good horse into our camp.”
“It’s a very good horse. I took it from Bad Hand’s herd.” Quanah felt slightly disoriented, and wished he hadn’t drunk quite so much whiskey. His head buzzed. Still, it was going to be a race against a woman. “Do you have a good horse too?”
Medicine Water looked over at Mochi, who was stretching, preparing to run. She was wearing a short deerskin skirt and her bare legs were shapely. “Yes, I have several. If you win, you can pick one, though of course Cheyenne don’t keep as many horses as the Comanche.”
“Let’s agree on the rules,” Mochi suggested.
“What rules?” Quanah said. “We’re racing. Trying to see who runs fastest.”
“Around the pole by the creek and back?”
“Fine.”
“No other rules? Just whoever gets back to the campfire first?” Mochi asked. “You’re sure?” Quanah nodded impatiently, wanting to get it over with. It was exciting to be standing next to Mochi, but her husband was there, too, and Gray Beard and Isatai and the rest of the Cheyenne camp were all watching. “All right,” Mochi said. “Gray Beard, will you give the order?”
“Of course,” the chief said. “Both of you get ready. Go!”
Quanah wasn’t the fastest runner among the Quahadi, but he was good enough to come close to winning some of their camp races, and that was against other men. He sprinted toward the stake by the creek. It was hard to see in the dark. The flames from the large campfire made it barely visible. Quanah was surprised to find Mochi keeping up, her legs pumping furiously. She was just behind his shoulder and he had to turn his head to see her. That slowed him slightly and she pulled even. That didn’t worry Quanah. As they made the turn around the stake, Quanah moved ahe
ad again—not by much but enough. Just as he knew he had the race won, Mochi lunged from behind and smacked her foot against his heel. It knocked Quanah off balance and he went sprawling. Mochi ran on, raising her arms in victory as she reached the campfire.
Furious, Quanah got to his feet and ran to her. “You tripped me!”
Mochi was accepting congratulations from some village women. She turned to Quanah. “So?”
“You cheated!”
Medicine Water walked over to Quanah. He said very quietly, “She didn’t cheat. The only rule was to see who could run around the stake and get back to the campfire first. My wife did, and now I own your horse.”
Quanah wanted to argue, but he saw that the whole Cheyenne village was watching. He needed their friendship and, more importantly, their cooperation. He swallowed hard and said, “He’s yours. I’ll go get him.”
“It can wait until morning,” Medicine Water said. “Come on, let’s drink together.” He and Quanah and a few of the other dog soldiers emptied two full bottles of white man’s whiskey. Mochi had one drink with them, then retired along with the rest of the camp women. Quanah completely lost track of Isatai. He supposed that the fat man had gone to sleep in Gray Beard’s hut. After a while, Quanah passed out on the grass near the campfire.
When he woke in the morning, someone had covered him with a blanket. Though he had a terrible headache, he got his horse from the meadow where it had been grazing along with the village herd. He led the horse by its hackamore to the tipi of Medicine Water and Mochi, and tethered it in front. Mochi stuck her head out of the opening, saw him, and asked, “Will you eat something with us?” Despite how she’d tricked him the night before, Quanah still wanted her so badly that his loins ached, though not as much as his pounding head. He was the furthest thing from hungry.
