Buffalo Medicine

by Don Coldsmith

  Owl was pleased about one thing. Because of his youth and the strength of his legs, he had been placed on the carrying crew. The others, the diggers, were those who could sit or crouch in the hole for many hours and chip away at the rocks. It required less strength, so many of the older or weaker prisoners were assigned there. One exception was the Old Man. His sinewy build seemed to contain an inexhaustible reserve of strength. Though he might at times be confused, mumbling to himself or chuckling insanely, his step on the trail was quick and sure.

  Owl, thankful for the assignment in the open air and sunlight, felt glad for the Old Man, too. A prisoner who had tried escape as many times as the Old Man’s reputation indicated must long for freedom. Owl could sympathize. He felt that he himself would soon go mad in the depths of the mine-hole. He longed to talk with the Old Man about his escapes, to ask the reason for his failures, and his theories on the possibility of success. Several times he attempted to initiate such a conversation, but each time the same result ensued: The Old Man would become suspicious, withdrew, and revert to the incoherent babbling of the deranged mind. His lapses into insanity seemed to become, if not more frequent, at least more sudden as the moons dragged along.

  Owl had observed much about the digging of the medicine rocks. They seemed to come from only one or two areas of the mountain, he noticed. One hole had apparently yielded up its store of yellow rock, and was abandoned, like an empty eye socket in the face of the hill. The active source, that which they were now working, seemed to yield a good quality of the medicine stuff. At least, the Hairfaces were pleased as they conversed over samples of the ore from the mine-hole.

  Sacks were carried from the hole by the antlike line of prisoners to a more level area along the sparkling stream and emptied in a pile near the arristra. This device was simply a round boulder, tethered to a stake in the smooth granite shelf of the stream bed. It could then be rolled in a circle, crushing pieces of ore beneath it. In the shallow groove, ground by countless revolutions of the stone, gathered the shiny yellow particles so dear to the Hairfaces. The unwanted portions of the ore stones were washed away by the trickling water of the stream.

  Owl had no knowledge of what became of the yellow sparkles after they were retrieved and sacked in small leather pouches. He did not particularly care. He had begun to suspect that this medicine might be more harm than good. He had seen no benefits that would appear to justify the extensive effort involved. Aside from the keeping of prisoners and the full-time effort of all the overseers involved, there were those who operated the arristra. All this for only a few pinches each day of the yellow stuff, And, so far, he could see not much use for it. It did not appear to make the hunt any easier, and was not used in growing. Aiee, there was much about the Hairfaces that was difficult to understand. Perhaps, he thought, there is something about the yellow stuff that makes men mad.

  He shifted his uncomfortable load and stepped carefully along the trail. Ahead of him, the leathery Old Man plodded along, mumbling to himself. He had spent much time near the yellow medicine, Owl mused, and was clearly mad.

  In front of the Old Man was another prisoner, carrying his load of ore. Owl had watched the man all day. He was sick, coughing frequently, and seemed very weak as they climbed that morning. Still, he had managed to keep up throughout most of the day, though staggering. At the mine, waiting to fill his ore sack, the man had been racked with such a paroxysm of cough that he had sunk to his knees. The overseer had prodded him up again, but now, several paces ahead of the Old Man, the prisoner seemed about to collapse.

  Unfortunately, they were approaching the rock of El Gato when the man stumbled and fell. His precious ore sack pitched forward, struck the edge of the path, and bounced over the rim.

  El Gato’s roar of rage and cutting bite of the lash reached the prostrate form at almost the same instant. The man’s shoulders twitched convulsively with the first few blows, then remained quiet. El Gato continued to curse and lash the unconscious form. Each stroke opened new cuts across the man’s back, but he lay senseless on his face. The other prisoners remained still, fearing that the wrath of El Gato over the loss of the ore sack would extend to them also.

  An overseer near Owl stepped past and trotted down the trail, squeezing past the Old Man. He spoke to El Gato and held a hand up to dissuade him for a moment. The Hairface stepped over to the prone figure and lifted the head by the hair with one hand.

  “Esta muerto!” he called to El Gato, letting the dead face drop back into the dust. El Gato shrugged and coiled his whip. The other man straightened, placed his foot against the dead prisoner, and gave a shove, rolling the body over the edge. He stood and watched it bounce down the cliff side and out of sight far below.

  Owl’s attention was suddenly caught by a movement on the part of the Old Man. They had dropped their ore sacks to the trail to rest for a moment while awaiting developments. Now the Old Man very carefully and deliberately picked up his sack, swung it in a long arc, and pitched it out into the canyon. He stood watching it fall, growing smaller and smaller below. The overseer was running toward him, readying his whip, and El Gato leaped from his perch and followed, eager to be in on the punishment.

  The Old Man seemed perfectly calm as he stood and waited. He did not cower, but stood proudly, not even deigning to look at his captors. Just before they reached him, he suddenly lifted his head and started to sing. Without even turning his head, he stepped calmly off the edge, and followed the path of the falling ore sack. At Owl’s last glimpse, the Old Man’s song still drifted upward.

  Owl stood in the dust of the trail, stunned. The Old Man had seemed perfectly rational. His was not a crazed, deranged shout as he went over the edge. It had been a completely deliberate action. The song, Owl realized, must have been the Death Song of the Old Man’s tribe, in his own tongue.

  He picked up his ore sack and plodded on down the mountain. The words of the People’s Death Song came to him.

  The grass and the sky go on forever,

  But today is a god day to die.

  Not for me, Old Man, he thought. In battle or in defense, but not that way.

  Long Bow met him on the trail before he reached the arristra.

  “What happened above?” he asked Owl as they passed.

  There was no time for lengthy answers. Owl took a deep breath.

  “The Old Man escaped,” he said.

  14

  The death of the Old Man seemed to make little difference to the Hairfaces, but it had a profound effect on Owl. For a few suns he brooded. He became more homesick than at any time since his abduction so long ago.

  He would dream at night that he was a boy in his parents’ lodge again, and the fire would be burning low, and he was cold. Then he would wake and the low-burning fire would be the one around which the prisoners huddled for warmth. He would creep closer and attempt to get back to sleep.

  Dreams of food also plagued him. How long, how long, since he had eaten crisp morsels of back-fat, or a slab of well-browned hump ribs. He remembered the morsels of raw liver eaten by the women during the butchering of buffalo. How desirable such a mouthful would now seem, after a diet of poor-quality stewed corn, beans, and dried pumpkin.

  But most of all, his dreams of Willow tormented him. Sometimes in half-waking confusion he could almost believe she had been entirely a dream. In his waking moments her memory was real enough. He relived a hundred times the ecstasy of their all too short one night together, and the bitter helplessness of seeing her clubbed down in her attempt to save him.

  In his dreams, too, she was real. He could feel her soft body, the strong young arms around his neck. He tasted the warmth of her lips as she came to him. Then, awaking, his senses would doubt sometimes if Willow had ever existed, except as a beautiful dream.

  Still, it was the memory of the girl that stimulated him to think again in terms of escape. She had always refused completely to accept the reality of captivity. She would escape. He had just dreamed on
e night the same dream of their escape, but this time awoke before their recapture. He awoke confused, but with the escape idea still foremost in his mind.

  Shock had prevented him from adequately planning escape for a time, but now he was able to return to such thought. And, strangely, the incident of the Old Man’s death had become the focus of his plans. He had noticed that, in the excitement of the moment, the overseers had become very careless in their watching of the prisoners. And El Gato, blind with rage, had become oblivious to all else.

  Owl did not tell anyone of his thoughts, even Long Bow. It was not distrust of the man, but more like distrust of his lack of spirit. Owl still hoped to include Long Bow in the escape when the chance came.

  There was one other major factor. Owl had no clear idea of how the attempt would happen. He only knew that when the time came, he would know.

  By the time the chance occurred, the days were growing short. The prisoners were telling each other that soon it would be time to stop the gathering of medicine rocks. There was ice on the edges of the calmer pools in the stream each morning.

  These things lent a sense of urgency to Owl’s thoughts. He was almost ready to concede that he must postpone escape until after the winter. Yet, he had decided, although he probably did not realize it, that this season must be the one. He had to make the try, and soon. The exact mode of his attempt refused to become clear in his mind.

  He was making his way down the trail with a loaded ore sack when the solution came to him. There was the spot, he noted, looking ahead, where the sick prisoner fell. That had precipitated the wrath of El Gato, and the rest of the episode. Suddenly the answer was clear.

  Owl carefully avoided any suspicious actions as he hurried past El Gato’s rock, but he noted certain features of the trail. Again, on the return trip, he examined the rock and its overhang, taking care not to pause too long. His effort must take place on the last round trip of the day, or nearly so. He rehearsed the event in his mind on each journey past the rock. His actions must be timed exactly right, and must not arouse suspicion. He took one other step. Owl managed to work adjacent to Long Bow for the rest of the day, but still said nothing to him.

  When the shadows from Sun Boy’s torch began to grow long on the mountain, Owl decided this was the time. On the next carry down the trail he would make his try. Long Bow was behind him as he started the walk that would be, one way or another, his last on the mine trail.

  El Gato recognized him and watched him carefully down the path. Owl staggered a little, and Long Bow called out from behind to ask if he were sick. Owl did not answer. This must be very convincing. As he neared the rock, under the watchful eye of El Gato, the stagger became worse. When he fell, it was nearly at the same place where the unfortunate prisoner had died.

  Owl sagged to his knees and pitched forward. His ore sack tumbled to the path. It had been a temptation to let it slip over the edge, but he had rejected that approach. The episode must be somewhat subtle.

  The roared curse of El Gato reached his ears, and Owl knew that the cutting lash would follow. He covered his head with his arms for protection and allowed the first stroke to fall. Then, screaming and bleeding, he rolled and scrambled toward the overhang of the rock. Once more the lash struck across his hips before he huddled against the smooth stone, whimpering and crying.

  The mid-portion of the rock bulged somewhat, overhanging the trail, and it was to this spot that Owl had scrambled. It was no protection at all. El Gato’s whip could reach any spot along the path for many paces. To see this small area, however, El Gato must move to the uphill end of the rock and lean out over the trail. He did so, now, chuckling at the stupidity of the prisoner who sought shelter where there was none. The whip coiled and whistled through the air.

  Suddenly the cowering prisoner under the rock was transformed. In an instant, just as the lash struck, strong brown hands grasped out, seizing the biting strands. He gave a powerful heave with muscles grown strong from lifting ore sacks. El Gato felt the pull on the whip, and, in his leaning position, was suddenly overbalanced. He released his grip to free himself from the danger, but the deadly instrument was tied firmly to his wrist by the thongs.

  Slowly, the massive bulk of the man tipped forward over the rock, across the trail and into the canyon. Owl had the satisfaction of looking directly into the face of El Gato. At only a little more than arm’s length, he saw the brutal, sadistic expression change to one of stark terror. El Gato did not scream. There was only a short choking gasp of disbelief as he launched into the void.

  For a moment it looked as if El Gato would attempt to fly. He spread his arms wide, grasping at nothingness, and seemed to hover like the eagle when she leaves her nest. Then he plummeted downward. Owl crouched on the narrow shelf, watching fascinated as the man’s body disappeared among the fir tips far below. His last glimpse was of the whip, still tied fast and trailing behind, waving straight upward in the wind of El Gato’s passing.

  “Run!” shouted Long Bow. “El Gato is dead!”

  Prisoners began to scatter up the slope, and Owl darted around the rock and joined in the escape.

  “El Gato esta muerto!” came the cry from another overseer, echoing in his own tongue the observation of Long Bow.

  Some of the prisoners, too broken in spirit to make the attempt, simply cowered beside the trail. At least a dozen men, however, were sprinting upward, leaping from one boulder to another, putting distance between themselves and the Hairfaces. As he ran, Owl was puzzled for a moment. The overseers were not running in pursuit. He had just begun to wonder at this strange situation when the smoke-log boomed from the meadow below.

  The entire slope was raked with scatter shot. Grape-sized pellets bounced and rattled among the boulders like hailstones. A juniper just ahead of Owl jerked and shuddered from impact, and needles scattered on the sand. Behind him, men screamed and fell bleeding, or continued to run, howling and limping.

  Below, the officer barked orders and the cannon was readied again, a fresh cannister of shot rammed home. Again the slope was raked by death.

  Owl continued to run and climb. He had some inkling that there must be limitations to the reach of the smoke-log. He did not know how far its medicine might reach, but he had noticed that there was a limitation in height. The smoke-log had always been used in a horizontal position. In addition, he was very much aware that the heavy device could not be moved over steep or rough ground.

  The smoke-log boomed again, but this time the rattle of the missiles was behind him. He continued to run, panting now in the thin mountain air. The crest of the ridge was now only a long bow shot above him.

  Lungs burning, he climbed the last few paces and stood looking back. Far below, antlike figures still scurried about, and distant shouts reached his ears. A white puff from the smoke-log drifted slowly over the expanse of the canyon, hanging over the abyss. A few heartbeats later the dull boom reached his ears.

  The realization slowly dawned on him, and he felt like shouting in triumph. An eagle swept past on fixed wings, and Owl spoke to the bird.

  “My friend,” he muttered, tears coursing down his face, “I am as free as you are.”

  15

  Far below, the Hairfaces moved along the trail and up the slope. Recaptured prisoners were herded together and toward the encampment in the meadow. A few men moved among the wounded, methodically clubbing those injured too severely to recover and be of use.

  Owl stood numbly watching, detached from the reality below. There was no apparent effort at pursuit, and he realized that perhaps they were unaware that one of the prisoners had actually been successful in escape. He peered through the lengthening shadows, looking for other escapees, but saw none. There was no sign of Long Bow. Owl had seen him at his elbow just before the smoke-log boomed, but not since. He waited a short while, then decided that the other had either been killed by the first blast of the smoke-log, or had escaped and was in hiding. He had not much hope, since the Hairfaces behave
d as if they had nearly every prisoner accounted for.

  It seemed likely, in fact, that there would be no pursuit. Owl had devised his attempt in the fading time of Sun Boy’s torch. Now, it would soon be dark and darkness would be on the side of the fugitive. Still, it seemed prudent to take certain precautions. They would probably expect him to travel east, toward his own people.

  With this in mind, Owl started north, following the backbone of the ridge at a distance-eating jog. He slowed only when the terrain was too rough, or the footing unsure. By full dark he was out of sight of the twinkling campfires below.

  When twilight became too poor to travel safely, Owl stopped for a while. He drank deeply from a stream, and then curled against the sun-warmed southwest face of a granite slab. He would move on after moonrise improved visibility.

  Owl had intended to sleep a short while, but found that he was far too excited. He tried to occupy the time by planning. There were many obstacles to be overcome. He was alone, without food, weapons, or clothing, except for his breechclout.

  Water seemed no major problem, since in this part of the mountains were many small sparkling streams. More important was the threat of the weather. This must be, by the People’s reckoning, the Ripening Moon. Soon following would come the Moon of Falling Leaves, and the Moon of Madness. From tradition, he knew that the seasons came earlier in the mountains. It was said that Cold Maker lived on a mountain top far to the north, and came down each autumn to the plains. He had no way of knowing when to expect Cold Maker in this strange land. He was certain of one thing, however. The prairies of his people were so far away that he could not reach them before winter. It would be necessary to face the onslaught of Cold Maker here, in the mountains.