The Coming

by David Osborne

  “Your friend Himíin will teach you many things, if you watch and listen to him. At night great powers will be yours; secrets carried on the wind will come to you. And he will protect you. Bullets will never harm you, if you carry Himíin with you, in your medicine bundle.

  “Listen to me now! Himíin is your brother; never harm him. And until you have seen twenty springs you must not marry. You have much work to do, sharpening your senses. A soft life in a lodge with a woman will not teach you.

  “Call on me when you need help. Sing this song: ‘Spirit Wolf, protect me; Spirit Wolf, give me courage; Spirit Wolf, sharpen my senses; Spirit Wolf, give me strength.’?”

  The wolf sang the song three times, then looked into the boy’s eyes to see if the song was in his memory. The boy nodded and repeated the words. When Himíin was satisfied, he rose up into the air, on a cloud, and became a man. His skin was pale, his hair was painted red, but his eyes still glowed yellow. The man rose higher, until all the boy could see was the cloud. He heard thunder again, then silence.

  Three days later, after a full day of sleep, they returned to their village. The boy sat high in his saddle, proud of his success. Black Eagle gave the howl of the wolf to announce that a friend approached, and a handful of the boy’s friends came running. Two of them dashed back toward the village to spread the news.

  The boy smiled as his mother raced toward them, calling his name. He dismounted and she flew into his arms, almost knocked him over. “Oh my son, you are so thin, like a starving coyote!” she cried. “Were you successful?”

  He nodded, trying to keep his dignity, embarrassed by her public show of affection.

  “You have reason to be proud,” Black Eagle said.

  Tears came to her eyes, and she embraced him again. As they started toward the longhouses, the boy stopped dead. In front of the first longhouse stood a pale giant—broad as an oak and a head taller than any man the boy had ever seen, his head covered by a strange headdress made of animal fur. But the most shocking thing was his skin, which was as pale as the boy’s own. He glanced uneasily at his mother.

  “We have visitors,” she told him. “Soyappos, like your father.”

  Others with the same pale skin sat around the village. They had round eyes, like fish, and tight, curly hair on the bottom half of their faces. He had never seen anyone who looked so strange.

  “Has my father returned?”

  She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “They are Soyappos, my son, but your father is not among them.”

  “Was my father a giant?”

  She tried to hide her smile: “Your father was as tall as our tallest warriors, but he was not a giant.” She took his hand. “Come, let us tell your grandfather your news.”

  As they walked, the boy examined the Soyappos more closely. When his mother had told him that his father had white skin, he had always pictured it as pure white, like the snow. But he could see that it was not so. Their skin was like his. He had heard so many stories about his father: about his medicine, his ability to knock down the largest tree, the way he killed grizzly bears. He had envisioned a being of so much power that he did not look like a normal man. “Mother,” he asked quietly, “do any of these men look like my father?”

  She pointed to one whose hair was like a sorrel horse’s.

  Ah-heh. So his father’s hair was not bright red; it was more like his own. “And how tall was he?”

  She pointed to a large man with a ruddy face. “Like that one. Tall, but not a giant.”

  He saw a Soyappo with blue eyes, like his own. It was the first time he had ever seen another being with blue eyes. “Mother,” he said, not even sure what he wanted to ask. “What does it mean?”

  “They want us to make peace with our enemies, just as your father did. They want to hunt beaver without being attacked by war parties.”

  Why, he wondered, would they hunt animals that hid underwater, when deer and elk and bear were all around them?

  When his mother told his grandfather of his successful quest, Red Grizzly Bear smiled at him. “Go, bathe, and oil your hair. Put on your best clothing. We will celebrate. It is good that our Soyappo friends are here with us on this important day, to help us honor Chief Red Hair’s son.”

  FIFTEEN

  July 1827

  Daytime Smoke came instantly awake when Black Eagle touched his shoulder. Quietly he rose, stripped off everything but his breechcloth and medicine bundle. The thin mountain air chilled him, and he threw a few sticks on the fire, blew until they ignited. In the flickering light he could see others moving, like ghosts in the black night. He checked his bighorn bow and his quiver of arrows, then walked away from the fire, felt his medicine pouch, and called to Himíin for success on his first buffalo hunt.

  Stars still stretched from horizon to horizon when they departed. He could see the great wash of the Whisper Trail painting the sky. He found the Seven Duck Sisters, Coyote Laughing above them, Elder Brother in the north.

  Astride his roan buffalo runner, he fell in behind Black Eagle. Beaver Head and Bat That Flies in Daytime rode up next to him. They were older and had already proven themselves on the buffalo plains.

  “Dog Lover wants to try buffalo now,” Beaver Head teased, his wide face in a smirk. “He thinks they will be better.”

  “Ah-heh, tell us how they are,” Smoke shot back.

  “Not as good as a wife,” Beaver Head said. “But Dog Lover would not know about wives.”

  Black Eagle turned around on his horse. “Some men do not want to be told when to rise, when to hunt, when to collect their horses,” he said, and Bat That Flies laughed.

  Daytime Smoke said nothing more. He rarely took part in the boasting and teasing so common among young men his age. As a boy, he had too often borne the brunt of the teasing, because he looked like a Soyappo. He just wanted the hunt to begin, so he could prove himself. That was how he had always won acceptance from his peers, whether in a riding contest or a shooting contest or—if necessary—a fight.

  Black Eagle led them eastward, toward the butte that rose above the prairie. The sky began to lighten as they mounted the crest of the butte. Smoke felt the breeze from the north. Black Eagle would keep them up on the butte, to the south of the prairie, to keep their scent from drifting to the herd.

  Soon the sky showed pink in the east, and Smoke could make out the prairie below, on their left, and the rim of mountains beyond it. He could see the brown gash cut down the middle of the green valley by the vast herd.

  When the sun finally peeked over the mountains they spotted the herd. Black Eagle stopped, and 21 riders dismounted. Fifteen Lightnings lit a pipe and puffed on it. Daytime Smoke shivered while he awaited the pipe. When it had gone around the circle twice, Fifteen Lightnings brought out a rattle and sang out for success in their hunt, thanking the buffalo for their lives, for feeding the Nimíipuu and keeping them strong in body and spirit.

  They remounted, then rode along the bluff until they were abreast of the herd. Black Eagle signaled them to spread out, so they would not approach the herd in a bunch and start them running too soon. When they had stretched out almost the length of the herd, they began to descend the bluff at a walk. Smoke fingered his medicine bundle. He closed his eyes and sang his power song, asking Himíin for help. He drew an arrow out of his quiver and notched it on his bow.

  The buffalo were spread out in groups, some still lying down, others grazing, a few at the stream, drinking. A group of calves, reddish brown and lighter in color, frolicked together. He could hear their low grunts, a kind of growling snort, but none seemed to notice the riders’ slow approach.

  When he was less than an arrow’s flight away, a few of the great beasts raised their heads and stared in his direction. He had never been this close to a buffalo herd, and he marveled at their massive heads, the fur shedding out along their backs and haunches to glossy dun hide, their hindquarters so small he wondered how they could run without falling over. Still calm, they stamped
and twitched their short tails to ward off flies.

  Suddenly one cow turned and—as if in one motion—they were all running. Stunned that such huge beasts could move so quickly, Smoke gave his mare the whip. But there was no need; the big roan laid back her ears and ran. He could feel her smooth power as she stretched out beneath him and they closed on the herd.

  The earth shook with the thunder of pounding hoofs. Dust billowed, and Smoke could hear the clash of horn on horn. Before he knew it he was close to the massive beasts, looking down at their humped backs and massive heads, held close to the ground, their legs churning furiously, their huge, coal-black eyes, rimmed with white, glaring at him in fury. He used his knees to steer the roan away a bit, picked a fat cow, and fired. The cow stumbled and went down, crashing and rolling. He reined in, wheeled, and faced the beast as the herd stormed by. Up again, it staggered, dazed, blood bubbling from its mouth, then charged him. He fired another arrow, right into its chest. It went down, and this time it stayed.

  He wheeled and kicked the horse and they were running with the herd again. When he got close some of the beasts veered to the right and he found himself surrounded. A chill ran through him as he envisioned what would happen if his horse fell or the buffalo closed in on them. But he could see others ahead of him in the same position, still firing.

  He picked another cow, held tight with his knees, and fired again. It went down face first. This time he did not stop and wheel, for fear of being trampled. He fired shot after shot. He had hit seven when he saw Black Eagle slow and let the wave of black surge around him, parting as they passed. Smoke did the same, and within seconds the herd was past.

  The roan’s massive rib cage rose and fell beneath him. He turned back and gazed at the prairie, littered with carcasses. A few of the beasts still staggered about, their heads down, swaying, blood pouring from their noses and mouths. Calves stood by their dead mothers, bawling. He saw Beaver Head driving arrows into those that still stood, so he turned back and did likewise. One old bull, eyes clouded with pain, looked up and charged him as he approached, but his mare dodged to the left and he spun around and drove an arrow deep into the bull’s side. It staggered, dropped to its knees, and let out a bellow. He launched another arrow, and it fell dead.

  All around him was blood and death. A Cayuse brave rode by and let out a cry of exultation, and suddenly everyone was whooping. Smoke screamed out his joy, his bow thrust upward in triumph.

  Black Eagle reached out to steady his horse. “How many?”

  “Seven, I think.”

  “You have done well.”

  Smoke gazed at the giant carcasses, and his arms began to tremble. “It was like riding with death.”

  “Ah-heh,” Black Eagle nodded. “There is nothing like it.”

  In a few minutes the women and children began to arrive on their horses to carve up the animals. Smoke found those he had killed by the markings on his arrows. He felt sorry for his mother, who had to skin and gut seven of the beasts, so he offered to help. It was women’s work, but she was alone, and he was so exhilarated he did not care.

  They turned the huge beasts onto their bellies and stretched out their legs on each side, to support them. Then his mother made a cut across the back of the neck, and they each took a handful of the long, dark hair and pulled the hide down off the shoulders. She made a long cut down the spine, severing the hide in two, and they pulled each side down and laid it on the grass, until they had exposed the bloody ribs and belly. They sliced the tender meat off the back and laid it on the freshly cut hide. She showed him how to cut off the front legs and remove the shoulder blades to expose the hump meat and ribs. With a tomahawk she severed the lower spine, and he cut off the pelvis and back legs. Now they cut out the hump meat and the ribs, placed them on the skins, which still lay faceup on the grass. They set aside the liver and empty stomach as well, but threw the rest of the guts onto the grass for the wolves.

  The Cayuse girl, Darting Swallow, worked not far away. Even in an old dress worn for harvesting meat, she made him ache with desire. He had been having man thoughts about her all winter and spring.

  “Go help her,” his mother told him. “You’re no good to me if you can’t keep your eyes off her.”

  He scowled, but she laughed. “Go on. You’ve seen twenty springs—it’s time you married.”

  He shook his head, looked away. But he could not resist the lure of Darting Swallow. He stood and walked to where she knelt on the grass, carving the hump meat off a carcass: “If you wish, I could help you.”

  She smiled up at him and laughed. “You have not killed any meat for yourself?” She was small and slim, her features fine, her nose thin—nothing like the full faces so common to Nimíipuu girls. Around her neck she wore three strands of blue and white beads and another of licorice root.

  “I killed seven.”

  “Seven! Daytime Smoke is a seasoned buffalo hunter!”

  “No, this was my first hunt.”

  Her face broke into a full smile, and she rose to her feet. “Then you must celebrate tonight!” She had an impish sparkle in her eyes.

  “I will skin for you, if you like.”

  “Ah-heh, I would. My father killed eight, and I fear I will be here until the wolves arrive.”

  Smoke skinned the animals, and together they cut off the legs and harvested the meat and organs. They wrapped the meat in the hides and tied it up into bundles, which he loaded on her packhorses. He tied two bundles together and hung them across the horses’ backs, one on each side. Blood was everywhere: on the hides, on their clothes, running down the horses’ flanks.

  “You must have a powerful hunter for a wyakin,” she said, “to have such success on your first hunt.”

  “Yes. And a good teacher.”

  “Your father was a great hunter?”

  “My father was a Soyappo.”

  “I know. You are lucky, to have his hair and eyes.”

  His mouth opened in surprise. He had always feared that his looks would make women hesitant to marry him. But she was smiling at him, and as the meaning of her words sunk in, he smiled back.

  Swan Lighting on Water’s heart raced: word had come of a Soyappo camp ahead. These were not King George men, Black Eagle said; they were Bostons, like Red Hair. Could he have returned, after so long?

  People hurried to pack their bags, pull down their tipis. Swan put on her most elegant dress, made of hide from a white buffalo and decorated with beads, colored porcupine quills, dentalium, and fringe. She draped her horse in red and yellow tradecloth.

  They rode all morning before they spotted the Soyappo camp, at the south end of a long, turquoise lake. The scent of sage drifted from the scorched hills as Black Eagle led them in slowly, in full regalia. They circled the camp at a walk, the entire procession a show of wealth and dignity.

  Hundreds of people were gathered: Soyappos, mixed bloods, Snakes, Utes. Swan searched the Soyappos for red hair, a familiar face. He would be old by now, she reminded herself. Did Soyappo hair turn gray? But these men were younger, their faces covered with buffalo hair, as his had been until he cut it off.

  They had set up an oilskin to block the sun. Swan waited impatiently while Black Eagle and other men sat beneath it with the Soyappos, sharing a pipe. The women had gone to set up their lodges, but Swan was too eager to talk to these strangers, to find out if they had news of Red Hair.

  She had never remarried. She had healed, finally, but she valued her freedom too much to go looking for a husband. She had ignored all suitors, refused offers to take her as a second or third wife, protected her heart. Her brother had provided meat and helped her raise her son.

  When the smoking was finally concluded, she approached Black Eagle and Daytime Smoke. Three Soyappos rose to greet her. The first was tall, with yellow hair, a scar on his chin, and eyes of blue—eyes that reminded her of Red Hair’s. Black Eagle introduced him as William Sublette, and he bent forward at the waist, took her left hand and br
ought it to his mouth, kissed the back of it. “Enchanté,” he said.

  “When he stayed with us for many suns, Chief Red Hair—William Clark—married my sister, Swan Lighting On Water,” Black Eagle explained, then waited for the translator, a Cayuse who had been traveling with the Bostons. He motioned toward his nephew: “The next spring their son was born. When he was young we called him Son of Daytime Smoker, because Red Hair often smoked his pipe before sunset. Now we call him Daytime Smoke.”

  The Soyappo looked surprised. He said something, which the Cayuse translated: “He looks like Clark.”

  A second Soyappo, with long, dark hair and scars on one side of his scalp, offered her his hand. He was missing his right eyebrow, and beneath his long hair Swan could see that his right ear was gone as well. “I know General Clark,” he said. “His journals inspired me to come west and explore to the Great Waters, where the sun sets.” He paused, waited for the interpreter to catch up while he shook Smoke’s hand. “I consider it a great honor to meet his wife and son.”

  Swan could see pride in her son’s eyes.

  The ruddy one, with a spare, bony frame and dark hair—the one they called Fitzpatrick—draped an arm around his earless friend. “This lad here is Jedediah Smith. He’s just back from California, land of Spaniards, toward the setting sun.” He looked at Smith, gave his shoulders a squeeze. “We thought he’d gone under.”

  “We do not trade with Spaniards,” Black Eagle said. “With King George men, yes. And with Bostons, many snows ago.”

  The ruddy one raised his dark eyebrows: “You know men from Boston?”

  “Sixteen snows ago Bostons came to our lands. They wanted our people to hunt beaver and sell them furs. But we do not hunt beaver.”