The front teeth met at a good angle, telling him immediately that the horse was not too old to be of use. The ears were erect and alert. He leaned an arm across the elk-dog’s withers, and it made no unusual response. He decided that this animal would satisfy his purposes.
Deftly, he tied the medicine-knot around the lower jaw, leaving the rope ends long for reins. Now he had only to wait for the storm to begin to abate. He turned the horse and leaned against the warm shoulder, on the downwind side.
Timing would be critical, he knew. If he were fortunate enough, the storm would decrease before daylight, and he could move on eastward. Several factors were worrisome to him as he stood waiting and chewing a strip of dried venison. The horse would leave tracks in the snow, but the wind might easily drift the powdery stuff and cover his trail. That would be a great joke on Cold Maker, he thought with satisfaction. It would depend much on when the storm abated and whether he was able to travel much before daylight.
Well, one thing at a time. Just now, he had beaten the storm, and had obtained the ability to travel rapidly. He rubbed his numbed fingers into the warm fur of the elk-dog, and waited.
25
Owl stood against the warm bulk of the horse and stamped his feet from time to time to keep them from growing numb. He must stay alert. Survival would depend on the decision as to when to leave shelter. Too early, he would be trapped in the open with Cold Maker still raging. Too late, he would be caught on the plain, in full view of his enemies when daylight came.
Impatiently, he waited. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he led the horse to the edge of the thicket and peered into the night. There were no landmarks visible in the dim white blur. Snow was still falling, but seemed less driven by the wind than previously.
An anxious thought struck him. With the wind diminishing, he would soon have no way at all to determine direction in the white expanse. Even after daylight, if the sky remained overcast, there would be loss of direction. He might easily travel in a circle, blundering back into the camp of the enemy. He would have to start on before the wind died, even at the considerable risk of freezing.
With a sigh of resignation, Owl grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane and swung to the animal’s back. He recognized this as a treacherous move on the part of Cold Maker to maneuver Owl into an exposed position again. He kicked the reluctant horse up out of the thicket and into the open.
The burning sting of the wind struck the left side of his face, and he wondered how he could have thought that the wind was abating. He nearly turned back to shelter, but realized he must not remain longer in the area. He turned a corner of his rabbit cape up around his face and the horse plodded ahead. Owl was careful to maintain direction of travel by keeping the force of the wind on his left. The horse continually tried to swing to the right, out of the stinging blast. Repeatedly, Owl pulled the animal’s head around and enforced the action with a kick in the ribs.
It was not yet daylight when the wind died suddenly. Snow had diminished to an occasional fleck. Abruptly, Owl realized he had no idea which direction they were traveling. He could not let the horse’s instinct take over. The animal would return to the Head Splitter’s camp and its own kind. He stopped and dismounted, unsure of his next move. Nothing to do but wait until daylight, he supposed.
The muddy gray dawn found him standing in the middle of a flat white world. There was little to break the monotony of the snow-covered flatland, except for the marks of his horse’s hooves wandering across the plain behind him. He hoped that further back the wind had covered the trail.
For a moment he considered continuing the general line of the wandering tracks, but then rejected the idea. He had no clear idea how long the horse might have attempted to change course before Owl noticed the absence of the guiding wind. He would need some sort of a sign to indicate direction.
Finally, he noticed, along the gray smudge of the horizon, a dirtier smudge. A long time he watched, as the blur became more prominent. That, he believed, would be the enemy village. The women would be building up the cooking fires as the morning routine took place. Families would be eating, and warriors would be looking after their horses in the aftermath of the storm. He devoutly hoped that the owner of this animal was a bit careless about his possessions. Perhaps the man would believe the horse had merely wandered away. Owl was certainly not equipped for pursuit or combat.
He looked at the animal actually for the first time in daylight. A clay-colored mare, sturdy in build and intelligent in appearance. She stood patiently, waiting for her rider to decide his next move. Owl liked the little mare’s qualities. He only hoped that her previous owner had not regarded this as his best buffalo hunter. If she were one of his lesser animals, he would be more likely to accept the fact of her disappearance.
Anyway, he now had a mark, of sorts, to determine direction. He must put the camp of the enemy farther behind him, and at the same time head generally northeast. Eventually, in this way, he should encounter some band of the People. Or perhaps, he thought as he swung again to the back of the claybank mare, he could find a village of Growers. They often traded with everyone, and could possibly tell him of his tribe’s location this season.
Sun Boy succeeded in breaking through the thick overcast at about midway through his daily arc. The thin rays from his torch gave scant comfort, but at least helped verify direction. Owl was pleased that his estimate had been nearly correct. He was traveling in a path only slightly more northerly than he had planned. He made a slight correction.
Some time later, when Sun Boy had again retreated behind the muddy gray nothingness, Owl was able to verify direction by a flock of geese. High overhead, their long wedges drew a line straight as an arrow shot across the sky. He watched and listened to their raucous clamor until they disappeared from sight and earshot, heading north.
He began to have some concern for his horse. He must, he knew, stop long enough for the animal to eat. Elk-dogs, it was known, were of a different sort than most animals. The deer, elk, and buffalo could all gorge themselves, and then retreat to methodically rechew and digest their meal at leisure. The elk-dog, however, must continually nibble. They were nearly always grazing, rather than bedding down like the other herd animals. White Buffalo would be proud that he remembered well. Just now, however, he must look for a stopping place for the night. It should furnish some degree of shelter as well as browse for the horse.
He finally saw the place, just before it became dangerously late. There was a dark gray-brown line of leafless trees and brush winding across the distant plain, marking the course of a stream. He turned the horse in that direction.
Before full dark, Owl had managed a fairly comfortable camp below the cutbank of the creek. There would be no pursuit at night in the snow, he reasoned, so he enjoyed the luxury of a fire. He stripped bark and small twigs from the cottonwoods along the stream and brought them to his carefully tethered mare. He must, at all costs, avoid the loss of the animal. The tired mare stood, eyes half-closed, contentedly chewing.
It was with a great deal of self-satisfaction that Owl finished his meager meal and took a last look along the back trail before rolling into his robes. He was all but satisfied that there was no pursuit.
The air seemed somewhat warmer. Cold Maker’s medicine was weakening with the passing moons, he knew. Any storm after the start of the Moon of Awakening must be, no matter how intense, very short in duration.
And, best of all, he now possessed the means for rapid, efficient travel. In another moon, two at most, he could find his father’s band and assume his position and duties as medicine man beside White Buffalo. Perhaps, he thought, he could even rejoin the People by the time of the Sun Dance in the Moon of Roses. Aiee, that would be a glorious reunion!
26
When Owl awoke, he discovered that Cold Maker had abandoned the goal of destroying the young medicine man. Sun Boy was just thrusting his torch over the world’s rim, and a new scent was in the air, the sme
ll of damp earth. Much of the snow was gone, melting in little rivulets. Scattered patches clung wetly, in marked contrast to the dry, powdery skiffs of the previous day. He quickly broke camp, swung to the back of the claybank mare, and started to travel. On a day such as this, one could cover much distance.
The prairie slid behind him under the feet of the little mare, and Owl exulted in the freedom of the far horizon. He had hardly realized the extent of his dread of closed places. This was country for human beings, the country of the People, where one could see to the edge of the earth. The sight was not obscured by rocks or trees, behind which an enemy could hide.
Each day the distant rolling prairie appeared slightly more green. He came to a burned area, and wondered whether the dry standing grass of last season had been fired by the medicine man of some band of the People. Perhaps only by lightning. Regardless, green sprigs were starting in profusion through the blackened stubble. Next day, he encountered buffalo, and allowed himself the luxury of a kill.
Owl tied his horse beyond a low hill, threw his elk robe over his head and shoulders, and began to approach the herd. He found that he had not lost the carefully studied skill of the buffalo medicine. He enjoyed the ability to move among the big animals, their hair now shedding in ragged patches. He recalled with amusement his resentment of his tutor for forcing him to perfect this procedure.
Owl moved among the animals perhaps even longer than was necessary, nostalgically brushing against the grazing giants. Finally he selected his quarry, and made his spear-thrust. The razor-sharp flint drove into soft flank parts, forward and up, into the region of the heart and lungs. The startled, mortally wounded cow threw up her head and ran wildly, with the other animals staring in dumb astonishment at her antics. It was not until the stricken beast lay kicking that the others began to fidget, then to pace, and eventually they ran in a clumsy, unhurried gallop over the prairie.
This became a feast of homecoming for Owl. He butchered out the choicest of cuts, all he thought he could carry. By the time he finished, a pair of buzzards were wheeling slow circles above him and waiting. He knew that at dark they would be replaced by coyotes and foxes.
Owl bundled his newly acquired food in a portion of the skin and slung it over his shoulder. Strange, he recalled. A few short moons ago, his survival had depended on the possession of a skin of poorer quality than that he was now leaving to rot. He regretted for a moment, but knew he could not take time to care for the skin. Neither could he carry it. The horse must carry food, all the meat he could conveniently pack.
That evening, Owl gorged himself shamelessly. He even rose in the night and cooked more of the savory hump meat, his first since he had been traded by the Head Splitters. That had been two, no, nearly three seasons ago.
Now, full and warm, he rolled back into his robe with a deep sense of satisfaction. He could hear the coyotes in the distance, yapping over the buffalo kill, and he was reminded that his medicine animal was still with him. He drifted into a comfortable, happy sleep.
Owl was not so confident a few suns later when he unexpectedly came across the trail of a moving group of people. From the marks of many lodge poles dragged behind elk-dogs, this was a large band. He tried to estimate the number of lodges, but could not.
The most burning question was, who were these travelers? They might easily be Head Splitters, so he must be cautious. They could just as easily be a band of the People. Their course was nearly due east, and they might be traveling toward the annual Sun Dance and Big Council with the other bands. He had no way of knowing where the Big Council might be held this season.
Ultimately, Owl decided to follow the plain trail before him. He decided that he was far enough north anyway, and could turn eastward into the main country of the People. If the band he was following proved to be one of his own tribe, so much the better. If not and they were the enemy, he could keep aware of their movements by following their trail. They would not be expecting trouble. They would not be so observant from their position of strength as would a smaller war party. He turned and leisurely followed the broad trail, observing ahead very carefully.
Owl estimated from the condition of the horse droppings that the traveling band was two or three sleeps ahead of him. They would not be traveling nearly as rapidly as he could, so he would in time overtake them. He was pleased at one thought. His own tracks would be practically undetectable among the myriad he was following, in case he, in turn, were followed.
It was several sleeps before he learned for certain the identity of the band he followed. Identification was of a very humble type. At a night campsight of the group ahead, he found a worn-out moccasin. It was of the distinctive plains pattern, and its decorative thongs told its story plainly. The discarded footgear was that of the People.
Probably, then, the group ahead were of the Red Rocks, or possibly the Mountain band. Owl’s heart leaped with expectation. These were his own people ahead of him, the People. He pushed ahead, though still with some apprehension.
After he sighted the band, his caution of the past seasons still forced him to watch them for nearly half a day before going in. Finally, from a concealed position, he heard the chatter of women gathering fuel for the evening fires. Chatter in his own tongue, unheard for so long. He rose, retrieved his horse, and walked boldly into the evening camp.
People stared at his odd garments, pointed and whispered, and dogs yapped at his heels. Owl stopped and asked an old woman where he might find the lodge of the chief. It was proper protocol to contact the chief immediately to pay one’s respects. In addition, the leader of this band was probably an old friend of his father’s. Owl would be welcomed as family, and he could learn news of the People.
The old woman pointed the way, and watched Owl curiously as he continued through the camp. He had not asked which band this might be. Somehow he hated to admit his ignorance.
He led his horse among the makeshift brush and skin temporary lodges used by the People while on the move. The big lodges, made of many buffalo skins, were too cumbersome to erect at each stop. He continued in the direction indicated by the old woman, and came to a large brush shelter. Several women were busily engaged in cooking over fires in front of the shelter. Seated under the arching branches sat Black Beaver, chief of the Mountain band. He was quietly smoking.
“Ah-koh, my chief,” greeted Owl. “I am Owl, son of Heads Off of the Elk-Dog band.”
Black Beaver nodded recognition and motioned him to sit. Even though custom demanded a certain time of ritual smoking, Owl was impatient. It seemed forever before the chief offered him the pipe. He blew to the four winds, the sky and the earth, and returned the pipe ceremonially to the older man.
“Now, my son, what brings you to my lodge?” He had diplomatically refrained from comment on his guest’s unorthodox appearance.
Owl longed to blurt out his entire story, but held himself in check. It would not be seemly. He would begin by asking the chief’s hospitality.
“I would ask the shelter of your lodge, my chief,” he began. “I have traveled far.”
Black Beaver’s eyes opened wide. To Owl’s surprise, the chief appeared to nearly lose his composure.
“Of course,” he finally nodded. “I only thought you might wish to stay with your wife and her people.”
“My wife?” Owl’s head swam. He completely failed to comprehend.
“You did not know?” Black Beaver was astonished in his turn. “I thought it your reason for being here!”
“But I have no wife,” the confused Owl blurted. Then, slowly, a long-forgotten thought stirred. The Mountain band of the People. Had that not been Willow’s? Could it be? But, he had seen her clubbed to the ground. Could the girl have survived, and lived to escape?
“Willow?” he breathed at last. “Willow is here?”
“Of course, my son. Your daughter, too. They do not know you are here?” The chief motioned to a young woman, who slipped quietly away among the brush shelters.
“Of course! Wait—you know nothing of this? Then Willow—she still thinks you dead!” Black Beaver became as excited as Owl had ever seen a man in his position.
There was a sudden rush from behind, and Owl was nearly bowled over in a flurry of feminine affection. Now the chief’s composure was completely broken. He chuckled.
Willow straightened and spoke.
“Forgive me, my chief,” she began.
Black Beaver waved a hand in dismissal.
“Go now,” he smiled. “You have much to tell each other.” He spoke again to Owl. “Come back when you have visited with your family. We will talk again.”
27
The next few days were a confusion of ecstasy for Owl. So many new ideas and experiences were thrust upon him that he thought his head must burst. Willow’s family welcomed him as a long lost son. They could hardly wait to provide him with buckskins and moccasins, and to invite friends to visit and meet their new son-in-law.
Owl made the adjustments slowly, only gradually realizing the prestige that he had brought to the girl’s parents. Aiee, to have a son in the family who was a medicine man of the People, who had traveled far and seen many things! One who had bested the Head Splitters, and even the unknown hair-faced tribe far to the southwest. His medicine must indeed be strong.
Willow’s father, White Hawk, was a tall warrior of middle age, athletic yet a quiet thinker. His pride was expressed in conversation with the younger man. He asked intelligent questions about the far tribes and their ways. Owl related well to him immediately. In some ways he reminded the young man of his own grandfather, the Coyote.
Even more striking was the resemblance of his mother-in-law to his own mother, the Tall One. He was not surprised to learn that her name was Tall Grass, and that she had in fact been called the “Tall One” as a child. It was easy to see where Willow had inherited the pride and spirit that he had so admired.
Buffalo Medicine Page 12
