Farther ahead, in the last of the day’s light, she stopped again. Something ahead, up on the far slope? A hundred yards away, maybe a bit more.
Something brown, no, tan. Tan and white.
She watched it until her eyes began to slip out of focus, then looked away and tried to catch its outline from the corner of her gaze, as Otto had taught her.
Ja, definitely something there! A Rehbock? No, not a deer, not in this dry place. It stood stock-still against the hillside.
An antelope?
Yes.
She suddenly saw the erect black horns, hooked backward in semicircles at the tops, and the big triangular prongs lower down, pointing almost directly at her. She began to raise the rifle . . .
The antelope bounded away, twisting and leaping in the same fluid motion toward the top of the hill. The rifle was up, hammer cocked. She whistled sharply. Just as the buck hit the crest of the hill he halted, turning to peer at her over his shoulder. He was outlined perfectly, as if cut from cardboard, black against the paler sky. She held the sights on the white patch behind his shoulder and squeezed . . .
Whack!
For an instant she lost the pronghorn in the rifle’s recoil, the gout of white gunsmoke. When it cleared he wasn’t there.
Did I miss? O lieber Gott, bitte—nicht! Let him be there, please! Ich bin klein, mein Herz ist rein . . .
Then she saw the antelope’s hind leg sticking up at an angle, outlined against the sky, shuddering slightly. Her heart was shuddering, too, thudding in her throat. She was very happy. She levered another round into the chamber, seeing the empty cartridge case spin off into the grass. Better retrieve it—Otto says we must reload all our shell cases. No gun shops on the prairie. She groped in the grass, found it by its heat with her fingers, and stuck the warm brass casing between her breasts, where the poison capsule had rested earlier in the day. Then she hiked up the slope to gut her antelope . . .
She was nearly finished, concentrating intently on the work, when Tom Shields spoke quietly not far behind her.
“Don’t shoot, Mr. Dousmann. It’s just your sister and me. She killed a nice little prongbuck for our supper.”
Jenny spun around. Tom Shields was ten feet behind her, a rifle in his hands. Her eyes jumped to Otto, skylighted on another ridge across the draw, the Sharps at his shoulder. He put it up and came striding toward them, his boot heels angry in the dry grass. When he reached her, she saw his face was stiff, bone white behind the black mustache.
“Jennchen,” he said, quietly and in German so that Tom Shields could not overhear what he said, “das war ja dumm. Stupid. You must never ever do that again without telling me first. I heard your shot. It was not the sound of a buffalo rifle. The Hostiles shoot lighter calibers, rifles like yours. Hearing it, I thought you were under attack. Maybe dead. Or worse, taken. I ran back to the camp. You were gone. Tom was gone. I followed your tracks down this way, saw you in the dark, and Tom behind you. In this light I could not recognize you. I was just about to shoot when he spoke. Gott sei Dank! But you must never do that again to me. Das war wannsinnig, stumpfdumm.”
Only much later, when her shame had burned away, did Jenny realize that Tom Shields must have shadowed her all the way.
WHEN THEY FINISHED supper—broiled antelope tenderloin, potato dumplings, soldier beans stewed in molasses, and hot black coffee—Otto and Jenny turned in. They unrolled their blankets in the spring wagon. Tom Shields took his rifle and walked out to check on the livestock. He brought along a bait of oats in his hat crown and went from one horse to the other, giving them each a mouthful while he checked their picket pins. His own pony nickered softly when he came to her.
He always fed her last, so he could talk to her without the other horses getting jealous. She was a spotted-rump pony who had come to him from the Nez Perce country by way of the Yellowstone—an Appaloosa, the white-eyes called her breed. He had stolen her six years ago from a hunting camp of the Absarokas, those wicked Sparrow Hawk People the white-eyes called Crows. He and his friends had taken many horses that night, but of them all he had picked her as his prize. He had watched her running buffalo that afternoon. He had to crawl into the Absaroka camp to get her. Her owner had picketed the spotted-rump pony beside him while he slept, so greatly did he value her. Tom had lain within ten feet of her for a long time, perhaps an hour, looking up into her eyes and thinking hard, “Come with me, Pony, and I will love you always, but do not make any noise when I cut your picket line.” Over and over. She did not nicker but only stood watching him, her ears pricked forward. When her ears relaxed and went back to scanning the night for random sounds, he knew she was ready. He cut the rawhide and crawled away into the darkness. She followed him silently, her unshod hooves making no sound in the damp, sandy soil.
The Absarokas had pursued them, and in the running battle she’d done all that his knees had ordered. She loved gunfire. It made her think of hunting. He had killed two of the Sparrow Hawk People and taken not just their scalps but their war shields as well. He and his pony bore them back home. He won a new name that day, Two Shields. More important, he had won her. She was long-legged and heavier than most Indian horses, but she ran and turned quickly, and she was tireless. She could run buffalo all day with him on her back. She had a sweet, forgiving disposition. Now he spoke to her in a soft, low voice as her velvet lips nibbled the last of the oats from his cupped palms.
He spoke endearments in Sa-sis-e-tas. My good little Pony Woman, did you miss me this evening? I had to follow that ugly white-eyes girl down the gulch to make sure she had no trouble. There are Snake People nearby. I saw three of them today, out on the horizon, riding parallel to us. But never fear, maybe they are only our friends the Crazy Knife People, the Kiowas. It was too far to see clearly. This is far south for the evil Snake People to be, so early in the Deer-Rutting Moon. The white-spider girl threw her poison away. I picked it up and am keeping it for her. She is afraid to die but too ignorant yet to fear the Snake People. Perhaps they will come around here tonight and try to steal you both! But I will not let them. We will kill them all and take their scalps and ride back north across the Greasy River to our Cut-Arm People and gallop into camp the way we used to, with you prancing proudly and tossing your tail and I swinging the scalps on high, and all the girls will come running, the men, too, to praise you for your valor. The old women will sing the Scalp Songs and we will have a big Scalp Dance to honor the Medicine Arrows. We will run races against those weak, puny little Indian ponies, you and I, and win all the bets. Maybe we will bring the white-spider girl with us. She knows how to hunt and cooks good food. You could carry her on your strong back along with me, couldn’t you? Or maybe we shall steal these white-eye horses. And my uncles will give us more horses for you to run with when we get back, and a big, strong stallion to give you babies. All will honor Two Shields and his brave buffalo pony. I will feed you apples and oats and the sugar we take from the wagon trains of the spiders when we kill them, and the girls will play their hands over you and sing your song and weave primrose and desert plume into your mane and tail. All that we will do when the Snake People come!
He walked back up the side of the coulee, well out of the light of the dying campfire, and squatted with his back to the wind, leaning forward on the butt of his rifle. It was a U.S. Cavalry Springfield carbine, a .50-70 breechloader whose stock had been split in the fight where he won it. He had mended it by sewing a strip of green deer hide around the stock. When the deer hide dried and shrank, it closed the split better than glue. He had decorated the stock with brass-headed tacks in the shape of two shields. He could sit this way until sunup, motionless, recalling the battles of the past, and he would do so this night. If the Snakes came skulking around, his pony would warn him. Many thieves had tried to steal her in the past. None had succeeded. He kept the scalps of the failed horse thieves hidden away in his war bag. It would not do for Mr. Dousmann or Captain McKay to see them. His other scalps he had burned in a
medicine fire when he went to live among the white eyes. Some of them were white-spicier scalps. But to throw away the scalps of the horse thieves would be unlucky; it would be asking for trouble.
He watched his pony moving gracefully through the darkness. He had untethered her from the picket pin. She did not need to be held by a white-eyes rope. He could tell by her ears what was out there in the darkness. If they flicked and went every which way, it was only buffalo or wolves or coyotes. If they pricked forward and remained there, she was listening to enemies. She would make no noise but stay near, waiting for the fight, and come when he whistled. She loved war as much as she loved running buffalo. She loved them as much as he did. He would rather fight mounted if many Snake People came. His pony was fast and brave. Sometimes up close she nipped at the men he fought, or at their horses. Her name was Wind-Blows-Snow-over-Bare-Rock. He called her Wind Blows, or sometimes simply Wind.
OTTO WOKE SUDDENLY. He looked up at the sky. The Dipper had clocked itself most of the way around the North Star—an hour shy of dawn. Jenny breathed steadily, deep asleep. Otto slid his hand under the rolled jacket he used for a pillow and withdrew the .44 Smith & Wesson revolver. He sat up, reached for his boots, and was just pulling one on when the first shot was fired. He heard a whoop, then two more shots. Another whoop. Some horses whinnied. Jenny sat bolt upright. Otto pushed her down again, then crouched in the wagonbed, peering over the top in the direction of the gunshots.
“It’s all right, Mr. Dousmann,” Tom Shields said. He was standing at the far end of the wagon, behind Otto. With him stood his pony. He smiled. “Just Poor Lo trying to make off with the stock.”
“Well, Christ, Tom—let’s get after them!”
“No need,” Tom Shields said. He raised a hand black with blood. “I got ‘em. Now I’ll kick up the fire again and start us some coffee.”
Tom sent his horse back to the herd and went over toward the pile of buffalo chips, where a few coals still glowed. Something limp dangled from his belt. No, three things, swinging wet and loose as he walked away.
“What’s he got there, by his hip?” Jenny asked.
“Nothing,” Otto said. “Get back to sleep, Jenny, it’s still a ways to go until morning.”
6
WHEN JENNY WOKE again, the sun was up. The hide of her antelope lay draped over the wagon’s gate, near her feet. Tom must have completed the skinning last night. She saw that he had fleshed the skin side, too. Neither Tom nor Otto was in sight. They must be down seeing to the stock, she thought. A pot of coffee seethed beside the fire. She was just pouring herself a cup when Tom Shields came up the draw. His face, as usual, was expressionless.
“Thank you very much for the skin, Tom,” she said.
He grunted and kept on walking, back to the hide wagon.
Well, she thought. You’re welcome, I’m sure.
Now Otto appeared, looking even angrier than he had the previous evening. He grabbed the coffeepot and poured a swallow directly from the spout into his open mouth. He winced, swilled the mouthful around through his teeth, and spat it into the fire. She saw that his hands were shaking.
“What’s the matter?”
“That verdammter red devil,” he said. “He killed those horse thieves last night, all three of them, and . . .” He was speaking in German again. She answered in kind.
“And what? He saved our livestock, didn’t he? And maybe our lives as well. Shouldn’t we be grateful?”
“It’s not that.” Otto glanced at her, then looked away. “It’s what he did after.”
“Scalped them? I saw those scalps hanging from his belt last night. I know it’s barbaric, Pastor Koellner most certainly wouldn’t approve, but don’t white men take scalps, too? What’s . . .”
“No, not just the scalps. It’s what he did after that.” Otto put an arm around her shoulders. “Look, Jennchen, these people are beasts. They don’t think the way we do. Not even when they’ve got good white Christian blood in them, as Tom does. They have no sense of decency, of pity, or of kindness. And none at all of guilt. They are heathens, barbarians, plain and simple. The men Tom killed last night were Shoshones, some folks call them Snakes. But these Indians weren’t even men yet, they were only boys, about your age. No, probably younger. Out on a horsestealing expedition. Out for a little fun. To make names for themselves among their people. Most of the so-called wars between these Plains tribes are nothing more than minor raids like this, a few young bucks sneaking in at night to steal horses or women, maybe lift some scalps while they’re at it. But the Shoshone and the Cheyenne are long-time enemies. They’ve been raiding, raping, burning, scalping, killing, and thieving from each other for ages now. Don’t bother to ask them why, they don’t know, nor do they care. They just love to do it.”
He drank some coffee and sighed.
“This is the ugly part,” he said. “When an Indian kills another Indian, he goes the whole hog. He not only ends the man’s life in this world, he makes sure the poor blighted heathen won’t have much fun on the Spirit Road either. After he’s scalped his enemy, if he’s got the time, he’ll gouge out his eyes, slice off his nose, knock out his teeth, yank out his tongue, cut off his hands and feet, take out his brain and lay it on a rock. They do tricks with other body parts as well. That way, when the dead man gets to the Happy Hunting Ground, he can’t see, smell, or talk with his comrades, eat buffalo meat, or even make babies. More important, without hands or feet or a brain to plan it with, he can’t take revenge on his killer when that unfortunate finally shows up in the sweet by-and-by. It has a warped sort of logic to it, I guess, if you believe in an afterlife, but the worst part is that after all this jolly whittling is finished, he’ll leave those items standing around on rocks or logs or on the victim’s body, to taunt the fellow’s friends when they find him later. The more grotesque the array, the better.”
He put both his hands on Jenny’s shoulders, stepped back, and looked her in the eyes.
“Don’t go down by the horses, Jennchen. Take my word for it. Our Tom has a fiendish sense of humor when it comes to the human anatomy. Let’s just pray that he never takes a notion to practice his heathen folkways on us.”
Snakes, Jenny thought. She recalled the hand sign he had used. When Tom warned me to look out for “snakes” yesterday, he must have known those Indians were around here. That’s why he followed me with his rifle.
“What was the Fetterman Fight?” she asked.
Otto looked at her in surprise. “Why do you want to know?”
“When Tom saw my rifle last evening, he said his father had had one like it, an older version, that he’d come by at some battle called the Fetterman Fight, up north of here somewhere.”
“The Fetterman Massacre,” Otto said. “Up in Wyoming Territory, about six or seven years ago. You never heard of it? Out here folks can’t forget it. Some young bad faces of the Oglala Sioux under a chief called Red Cloud, along with a few Cheyennes, lured eighty-one men—U.S. Army troops and a couple of civilians—into an ambush, killed the lot of them. Just before Christmas, it was, in ‘66. The Army was building some forts along the Montana Road, what some call the Bozeman Trail. It runs smack through the Indians’ sacred hunting grounds. The forts were supposed to make it safe for the miners heading to the goldfields around Virginia City. The government was trying to negotiate a right-of-way through the Big Horn Mountains and the Indian Territory beyond, and most of the Sioux agreed. But Red Cloud and his Oglalas, along with some of Tom’s people, wouldn’t allow it. They kept sniping at the Army work parties, didn’t want the white eyes, as the Sioux call us, cutting their sacred groves, or some such thing. At any rate, there was this hotheaded captain named William Judd Fetterman, bragged that if the Army’d just give him eighty men he’d ride clear through the whole Sioux nation. So one day, when the Hostiles were acting particularly stroppy, the commanding general gave him eighty men and he rode out. But he didn’t ride through the Sioux nation. The Oglala branch of it rode th
rough him.”
“Killed them all?”
“Every last one, and in only about half an hour. Then they did to the bodies what our Tom did to those Snakes last night.”
“Could Tom’s father have gotten a rifle like mine there?”
“Certainly. The two civilians, Jim Wheatley and Ike Fisher, had Henry rifles and apparently they did the only real damage to the Hostiles. The Army troops were armed mostly with singleshot Springfields left over from the war. Slow-loading, no match for arrows and lances at close range. I was up that way when they brought Ike Fisher’s body back to the fort, he looked like a porcupine. Had 105 arrows in him. Tom’s father could have recovered one of those Henrys. Hell, Tom could have been there himself, for that matter. He’s old enough. These boys start on the warpath when they’re fourteen or younger.”
He looked over at Tom Shields yoking up the oxen. A good hand with draft animals. Very patient. Gentle and sure with his voice and his movements. Viewed from behind, he might have been any Western stockman, perhaps even a Wisconsin farmhand preparing for a trip to town on market day. A good-natured country yokel—you’d enjoy drinking a lager with him down at the local tavern. Maybe even spin a yarn or two. But turn him around and you’d see the face of a killer.
“The only way to make a Cheyenne quit the warpath,” Otto said dryly, “is to shoot him off of it.”
_____
DESPITE OTTO’S ADMONITION, Jenny could not resist having a peek at Tom’s handiwork. She waited until the men were busy rearranging the loads in the wagon, then slipped down to the streamside meadow, where the horses still grazed. The hum of a thousand flies led her to the bodies. They hung over the scene like a blue-gray cloud. She edged closer, fearful of what she might see. It wasn’t as bad as she had feared. The blood had dried and blackened by now, and the mutilated corpses, despite their fearful wounds, looked like strangely painted wax mannequins, certainly no worse than the freaks of nature she’d sneaked in to see at a raree show near Heldendorf—she still had occasional nightmares about the Lipless Woman.
Tie My Bones to Her Back Page 6
