by Chuck Tyrell
“We call it mu,” Shoo Lee said. “If you practice correctly, then when you need them, your muscles will do what is right for whatever is happening. But for your muscles to react or act as necessary, you must eliminate all unnecessary thoughts from your mind. We use what is called shinju in our language. To eliminate unnecessary thoughts, do this—” And Shoo Lee taught Stryker how to meditate. How to sit cross-legged on the ground with the back held straight and the head slightly bowed. How to make eyelids into mere slits through which everything took on a blurred surrealistic look. How to place hands on thighs, palms up and fingers cupped, ready to receive whatever karma—that’s the word Shoo Lee used—was due to him. And Shoo Lee taught Stryker how to repeat the shinju until it became indelibly linked with a state of mu—mental nothingness.
Stryker folded his bear hide and sat on it cross-legged, as he’d been taught. Back straight, hands on thighs, thumbs up, fingers cupped. He closed his eyes and searched for peace of mind, opened his eyes to just a slit, and began intoning the shinju Shoo Lee had taught him.
Namuamidabutsu. Namuamidabutsu. Namuamidabutsu.
His mind shifted from the coming fight with Gewagan to his search for Catherine de Merode. How far north had Lean Bear gone? Namuamidabutsu. Had Cat been sold to another band? Namuamidabutsu. How soon would winter come? Namuamidabutsu.
Walks came with roasted meat on a stick.
Stryker ignored her until she was but three steps away. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Thank you, One-who-walks-slowly, for meat to eat.”
“White man, Gewagan makes ready. He has called medicine man.”
“I am ready, Walks.” He took the stick of meat from her and pulled the end morsel off with his teeth.
Walks watched him chew.
He swallowed. “You find my way of eating interesting?”
Walks shook her head, but did not turn away. Stryker pulled another piece of meat from the stick.
“Why did you sleep sitting?” Walks asked.
Stryker chewed.
“Why?”
He swallowed. “Not sleeping. Talking to my spirit. Telling my spirit not to fear the man Gewagan, because after all, he is only a man.”
“He is a big warrior with many ponies.”
“Then he is your warrior?”
She shook her head. “I am no one’s woman, but Gewagan is maybe the strongest warrior.”
“Where then is Will Benson, the man who came here with me?”
Walks shrugged, but her face said she knew.”
Stryker bit off another chunk of venison. No salt, but the flavor from hickory smoke made it taste very good. As soon as that chunk was gone, he bit the last one from the stick and handed it back to Walks. “My thanks,” he said while chewing. He swallowed, and resumed his meditation position. He had to achieve mu before Gewagan wanted to start the fight.
His consciousness crawled back inside his body and sank into its tissues.
A masked man in a feathered headdress, breastplate of bone and beads, circlets of feathers at wrist and ankle, breechclout of black with tails hanging past the knees front and back, and streaks of yellow sacred pollen on face and arms and legs, drew a circle on the ground in the open space before the teepees. He scattered pollen to the cardinal directions from the middle of the circle and mumbled words that Stryker could not distinguish.
Namuamidabutsu, namuamidabutsu, namuamidabutsu.
People began to gather. They were not the rowdy, noise crowd that greeted Gewagan’s returning hunters. Instead, they were silent, almost brooding, as if waiting for some important omen.
Namuamidabutsu, namuamidabutsu, namuamidabutsu.
Gewagan stepped from Walks’ teepee. He turned to face the sun, arms outstretched in supplication.
The shaman who had drawn the circle now approached Gewagan. He dusted the supplicant warrior with a hawk’s wing, then scattered pinches of something powdery to the four winds around Gewagan The shaman painted yellow stripes on his face—one across the brow, one down the nose, one on each cheek, and a dot on the chin. He took a piece of flint and one of steel from the bag that hung from his neck. Chanting, he struck sparks at Gewagan.
Gewagan knelt, steepled his hands, and looked as if he prayed, as any Christian would pray. At last the warrior was ready. Reinforced by all the medicine his tribe could summon from the cardinal directions, Gewagan stepped into the circle and pulled his Green River knife from its beaded sheath. “White man. Scourge of my people. White man! Come. We fight. In the circle.”
Namuamidabutsu, Stryker said.
Chapter Fourteen
“Come!” Gewagan shouted.
Stryker looked up.
“The circle, white man. Come. Fight.”
Stryker stood, his face sober, his eyes direct and full of strength. “Would you fight with me this day, oh Gewagan?”
The circle is here, white man—medicine man made pure for fight. You promise. Five days, now six days. You promise. Come. Fight.”
As Gewagan was dressed in breechclout and moccasins, Stryker also shed his clothes, intoning the shinju as he disrobed until he wore only a pair of pants that came almost to his knees.
Stryker, too, stepped into the circle. He knew nothing of the rules of fighting in the circle, if there were any, only that it was done in cases involving honor.
Villagers crowded around, effectively forming a barrier. Running to escape was not an alternative.
Gewagan crouched, knife held low, edge up.
Stryker stood loosely, covered only by knee-long underpants, feet bare. He’d left the staff of box elder lying beside his folded bear hide.
Gewagan slid to his right, leading with the knife. His eyes fastened on the puncture wound just beneath Stryker’s collarbone. A weakness, perhaps, his eyes said. He led with his left shoulder, seeking to knock Stryker off balance so he’d be vulnerable to an underhanded knife thrust.
Stryker moved just enough to let Gewagan’s charge meet empty air, and when the warrior’s face came abreast, Stryker slammed his right elbow into Gegawan’s cheek, hard enough, perhaps, to crack the bone.
Gewagan grunted at the impact, letting his head go with Stryker’s blow to minimize the damage, “A ya,” he said, continuing his knife thrust, aimed at Stryker’s white belly. Stryker slapped the knife hand aside and sent Gewagan to the ground with a sweeping Savate kick that took the brave’s feet from under him.
Stryker stepped back to allow Gewagan to rise, something not done in Indian society. A ripple of surprise surged through the crowd. They crowded closer to the circle.
Gewagan lunged to his feet, anger clouding his vision. He crouched again, growling. “Prepare to die,” he said with a snarl.
“Namuamidabutsu,” Stryker intoned, keeping himself steady and calm. His eyes were nearly closed. He saw Gewagan, sensed his moves, but no anger, no fear, no sorrow, no pleasure invaded his mind to upset his physical and mental reactions.
Again Gewagan charged. This time the knife hand trailed and the opposite shoulder led, aiming again for Stryker’s wound.
Stryker spun out of Gegawan’s path, then waited for the warrior to face him again.
Four times Gewagan charged. Twice Stryker’s elbow again found the brave’s face, which began to swell. Stryker was yet untouched. Then Gewagan’s knife sliced across Stryker’s chest, making a shallow cut that bled freely.
Stryker immediately went into a flurry of Savate kicks—high, low, in between. When they landed, each kick brought a tiny grunt from Gewagan.
“Namuamidabutsu,” Stryker intoned. The knife wound across his chest stopped bleeding, but a curtain of red now marked him from just below his pectoral muscles to the waistline of his pants. His narrowed eyes and focused mind read Gewagan’s intentions as clearly as if the warrior were speaking aloud, telling Stryker exactly what he was going to do. Each thrust or sweep of Gewagan’s knife was parried by Stryker’s hand or forearm. Often, as parrying moves finished, Stryker delivered a swift Savate kick t
o Gewagan’s thigh, always in the same place.
Gewagan’s efforts became more and more desperate. Both he and Stryker perspired freely, although the day was cool.
Again and again Stryker sent a kick to the same place, midway between Gewagan’s left knee and hip. And he delivered the kicks with all his muscle power and weight behind them.
Gewagan’s knife thrusts and sweeps lost the alacrity he’d opened the fight with. Stryker hit him with three kicks, the last one once more slamming into Gewagan’s thigh. The leg began to drag, so the warrior began to lead with his right leg, which made it much more difficult to use the knife in his right hand.
Stryker stepped back and held up his hands. “Enough,” he said. “There is no need to go on. I see Gewagan, a good and strong warrior. Gewagan also sees me, and I am strong.”
He held out his right hand. “I would become the blood brother of Gewagan. Let his family be my family. Let my family be his family. Let us be brothers together.”
He paused. “Walks. Your knife. Please.”
The crowd of Shoshone murmured, not knowing what to expect.
Stryker stepped to the edge of the circle where Walks stood. She took her knife from its sheath and gave it to Stryker handle first. He accepted the knife and used it to make a cut across his right palm, deep enough to bleed well. The blood dripped from his hand as he turned toward Gewagan. “Here is my blood. Would you not be my brother?”
Gewagan studied Stryker’s face for a long moment. Then he gave a short nod. “White man Stryker. I will be your brother.” He made a cut across his own right palm and walked toward Stryker, limping, with his bloody hand outstretched.
Stryker met him halfway. The two strong men clasped hands.
“Brother,” Gewagan said.
“Brother,” Stryker said.
The villagers were silent. Then came the murmur of many voices. Louder and louder. A drumbeat began. The shaman who had drawn the circle approached the two men. He cast sacred pollen in the air and began an intricate dance that matched the drumbeat. He danced around Stryker and Gewagan, shaking a rattle at them. Twice. Thrice. Four times he circled them. Once for each cardinal direction. The villagers took up the dance, a prancing step on one leg and then the other, around the edge of the sacred circle. The whole village celebrated new blood brothers—Gewagan and Matt Stryker.
~*~
“Mr. John?”
Swayback sat with his legs on either side of the big limb he’d stood on to get at the beehive in the hollow of the big oak’s trunk. He leaned back against the trunk, chin on chest, eyes closed. His chest did not move.
“Mr. John?” Cat picked up a small pebble and tossed it at Swayback. It bounced off the tree trunk but missed the motionless man. She tossed another.
“Mr. John!” Missed.
Another, tossed with more force, hit Swayback on the leg.
“Mr. John?”
Swayback didn’t move. The honeycomb sat lodged between his crotch and the limb. His hands hung limp from dangling arms.
Cat threw another rock, this time with better aim. It glanced off Swayback’s cheek, but he just sat there. Just like he was dead.
A distant memory niggled at Cat’s mind. Long ago, in another world, she’d taken a Grand Tour of Europe, as members of the aristocracy often did. Belgium was on the far reaches of the Holy Roman Empire. Cities that had been the cradle of civilization for centuries lay southward—Naples, Rome, Vienna, and places in between. Once, only once, the group she traveled with happened upon a funeral procession. An Austrian Duke had passed on, and his death was a topic of conversation that evening in the schloss.
“Poor Andre. So young. And I hear others were taken sick.” The duchess sipped some sparkling rose wine. She said it was from Portugal.
“But Andre is dead.”
“Ah, but he was always much more of a gourmand than gourmet.”
“And?”
“Oh, my. Don’t you know? One must be very careful with honey that comes from anywhere near the Mediterranean Sea.”
“But honey is honey, is it not?”
“Of course. But when bees use nectar from oleander flowers, or some kinds of laurel, their honey turns poisonous. It brings sickness with only a dab, but eat heartily and death comes.”
That’s what the duchess said. Cat had no idea why the honey Swayback John ate killed him, but she had no doubt that it had. Now she was once more alone, surrounded by nothing, not even enemies.
She sat cross-legged on the ground. Sam went to his belly a good ten feet away and crawled to her side. Absentmindedly, she put a hand on Sam’s head. “The honey killed Mr. John, Sam. Now we are alone. Me. You. Two horses. One mule.”
“Sam, Sam, Sam.”
The dog inched closer. Cat put her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Maman, for sending your son to watch over me.”
Sam licked her face. Cat buried her face in his ruff and cried. But only for a moment, and then a little longer. She sniffled, and raised her head.
“Well, Mr. John said we should go to a town called Bodie. Somewhere near a lake named Tahoe. I will leave Mr. John up in the tree where he ate the honey he loved. If a man can be happy to die, then I think Mr. John is happy. Do you not think so, Sam?”
Sam licked her hand.
“Bodie.” Cat rolled the name around on her tongue. Gold. Men go crazy for gold. Still, she didn’t know the way back to Fort Laramie any better than she knew the way to Bodie. But Matt Stryker was at Fort Laramie. Maybe.
“Sam. What to do? Where to go?” The dog licked her face again. She knew Sam would always be by her side if he had the choice.
Fort Hall? What about Fort Hall? Cat had come from Fort Hall with Swayback John. Perhaps she could return the way she came. There might be soldiers at Fort Hall. Soldiers would know where Matt Stryker was. Or, they would know how to find him. But what good would it do to find Matt Stryker?
Cat sobbed.
Sam whined as if he could feel her pain.
Cat straightened and squared her shoulders. “Catherine de Merode. Catch hold of yourself. Stop. No more tears. Think. Do. You are no weakling.”
She realized that she must scale the oak tree to reach Swayback’s body. Not to move it or take it down, but to retrieve whatever he had that might be useful.
Cat found the way up easier than she’d imagined. There was even a small branch she could stand on while searching the clothing on Swayback’s now-stiff body.
She took the big Bowie knife that hung at his side and used it to cut through the leather strap that held the sheath and a possibles bag. She also took the converted Colt Army from his waistband.
“Mr. John. I was a dog. Worthless to all but Maman and her children. You bought me and treated me as if I were human. Which I think I am. Now I understand. I leave you here, Mr. John. Not because I do not respect you, but because I do.” Cat returned to the ground the same way she’d ascended.
She took stock. A Bowie knife. A Colt M1861 Army revolver, .44 caliber, converted from cap-and-ball to cartridges. A Winchester M1873, also of .44-40 caliber. Flint and steel. Pemmican. She stopped to eat two big bites of pemmican. Then she changed from denim skirt and cotton blouse back into buckskin trousers and long buckskin tunic she’d worn from Black Eagle’s camp. She had miles to go on her own and could not afford to be hampered by a billowing skirt. She did, however, keep on the pantaloons Swayback had bought her at Fort Hall.
She saddled the horses, even though only one would be ridden at a time. Items Swayback had purchased at Fort Hall were stowed in pannier bags that hooked to the mule’s packsaddle.
Sam came to brush against Cat’s legs. Her hand went to his head. He rubbed against her and padded over to the black-point bay pony Swayback got for her. He lifted his muzzle to the horse, which lowered its own to trade breath with the dog. The horse nodded. Sam went to Swayback’s dapple gray and repeated the breath exchange. Finally, he traded breath with the Missouri mule, which also nodded, as if it had agr
eed to some thought the dog had communicated. The stableman at the estate in Belgium also traded breath with the horses. They seemed to obey even his thoughts, often moving before he gave a command.
“Sam. Here,”
The dog came, tail wagging. Cat knelt and took his muzzle between her hands. Softly, she blew into his nostrils. He smiled and breathed back at her. He licked her face. She went to each horse and exchanged breath, then with the mule. Once again she felt a part of the pack, even if the animals were not all of the same species.
She put leads on the gray and the mule, and mounted the bay. Where to go?
Sam gave a sharp bark. He’d already picked a path and expected the rest of the pack to come along. She reined the gray around and followed, thinking little of the direction. It felt good to be part of a pack again. As a pack member, she didn’t have to think about humans. About what Black Eagle’s men and boys had done to her. She didn’t need to be human, and that eased the hurt.
The big dog didn’t take the trail they’d come down. He seemed to have an idea of his own.
Cat could see the distinctive peaks Swayback had called the Three Tetons, but Sam led them toward the hills slightly north of west. All day they traveled, and Cat ate pemmican in the saddle. The horses and the mule snatched mouthfuls of grass along the way. Sam ate nothing. That night, Cat wrapped herself in two blankets and Swayback’s tarp ground cloth. Sam lay up against her as she slept. The horses and the mule cropped at grass and may have slept on their feet, but Cat was unaware. Somehow, in the company of these animals, she no longer felt the pull and stress of all that had happened to her. Her companions did not care that the Absaroka had treated her as less than a woman, less than a human. Now she found that not being human was much more comfortable than having to think about what some other human might be thinking. Still, she woke with the dawn, ate pemmican, saddled the horses, packed the mule, mounted the black-point bay pony she now called Little Red, and followed Sam.
He turned west on the third day, and Cat followed without question. Sam took them into a deep canyon through which a small stream flowed. He stayed on the south bank of the stream until the cliffs of the canyon closed in and the stream became a waterfall that tumbled from fifty feet above the canyon floor into a pool the falling water had carved in the rocks below.
