“Are you all right, Mother?”
The voice of Singing Wolf brought her back to reality.
“What? Oh, yes, Wolf. I have been on a horse before … Before you were born!” she added tersely.
She could tell that her unused muscles were beginning to tighten, but she would never complain. She did hope that the leaders would not feel it necessary to cover too much distance today. It was apparent that her body would be stiff and sore, though she would not admit it, except to herself.
Actually, she was rather proud of the way in which she was able to ride today. The gray was an old family horse, steady and dependable. Her own grandchildren had been tied to the back of this mare as toddlers, just as she herself had been, on one of the mare’s ancestors. There is nothing new, she thought.
An odd idea struck her. She would be stiff and uncomfortable, and could do a considerable amount of complaining about it. This would help her cling firmly to the image that she knew her family expected. In a way, she would have preferred to be considered a kind and gentle old woman, but it was probably too late for that. Everyone now expected her to be sour and bitter. Well, let them. She would see that they were not disappointed. But when the time came, they would be sorry …
Shadows were beginning to lengthen when the word was passed down the column that the scouts had selected a place for night camp. Deer remembered the spot. She had lived in these tallgrass hills, traveling and camping with her people, for some fifty summers. There would now be few camp sites that were not familiar to her.
This one was good. All were good, actually, after a day or a week of travel. But some, better than others, and this was one of the best. Clear, deep pools of cool water were strung along the sparkling creek like beads on a thong. White gravel bars, and plenty of grass for the horse herd.
The “wolf,” the scout who had come back to the columns to report, now wheeled his horse and sprinted away. Bits of dirt and sod flew high in the air behind him. Showing off, Deer thought. He knows that some girl is watching. A few girls, of course, might be attracted by such antics. Most would be disgusted at the young man’s pointless demands on the abilities of a good horse. Such useless expenditure of the animal’s strength might someday be regretted. What if he did so and then encountered a life-threatening situation with an exhausted horse? The appreciative giggles of a couple of silly girls would mean little then. Deer consoled herself with the thought that any girl attracted by such stupidity would be no better than that young man deserved. She clucked her tongue in disapproval.
She, Running Deer, would certainly have taught any daughter of hers better than to be impressed by such antics. She and Sun had had a daughter, as she had always wished for one. It had been her firstborn, a beautiful child. Little Bird had been just a toddler when her father went on the disastrous trip south. It was after he returned that illness struck down young Bird, taking her life in the Moon of Long Nights.
Deer had felt that somehow this was a trade. She had prayed so long and hard for her husband’s safe return … That was granted, but in exchange … She wiped a tear away.
It had not been long before she realized that she was pregnant again. She gave birth to Singing Wolf, and then, much later, to Beaver Track. It was not that she was displeased with her sons, for she was very proud of them. Both were well thought of in the band. Well, in the whole nation, actually. Everyone knew the name of Singing Wolf, respected young holy man of the People.
Her other son, Beaver Track, though not quite so visible as Wolf, was known as a skilled tracker and hunter. She was equally proud of him.
Still, a daughter would have been a great comfort to her in these past few years … Another woman to talk to … Her sons’ wives honored her, but it was not the same. By now, Bird would be grown, with her own lodge …
She wiped away another tear, hoping that no one noticed. Maybe if anyone had, they would only think that the wind had blown a bit of dust …
There was a shout from the head of the column, and she raised her eyes. A dark line of green snaked its way across the lighter green of the prairie grasses’ lush growth. Deer followed the tree line with her eyes, tracing the course of the creek. Now the horses began to quicken their steps, scenting water ahead. She found it necessary to hold the gray mare to a walk. She did not care to subject her aging bones to a trot today. It was probably not the water that made the animals push forward, she realized. They were far from suffering with thirst. Probably the horses merely sensed the end of a day’s travel by the attitude of the people. There were trees ahead, which probably meant a camping place, which meant that the animals would be relieved of their burdens. Naturally, they tried to push on, to achieve that.
Dogs ran ahead, too, to explore the area where they would spend the night. She could see the scouts now, against the dark green of the timbered strip. They beckoned the column in with hand signs, indicating the areas for camp and for the horse herd.
Stupid, she thought, watching the one who had run his horse needlessly. He was officiously directing those who approached. Still trying to impress some girl. It was perfectly obvious where they must camp, near the water and upstream from the horse herd. Any child would know that. She took great pains not to look at him as she turned upstream.
It occurred to her to wonder why she felt so. It was not really in her nature to resent foolish people. She had always been impatient with those who did not do their best, but this was different. Maybe, she thought, I have come to hate everyone, not just the foolish.
Then the guilt feelings returned, in the knowledge that Walks in the Sun would certainly not approve of such an attitude. He had been almost too much to live up to, in his wisdom and goodness. And for that, she almost hated him sometimes. Which, of course, made her feel guilt again. It was an endless circle.
Running Deer started to dismount, and Beaver Track came running to help her. Irritated by his attentiveness, she jerked her arm away and slid to the ground. A thousand needles seemed to jab at her feet and legs as the circulation started to return. Aiee, she must be getting old. But no, she recalled, dismounting after a long ride had always been so. Trying not to limp, she handed the rein to Beaver. “Here,” she said, as she turned to remove the saddle, “hold her a moment … Then you can take her for me.”
Deer turned and laid the padded saddle aside with her small pack. She averted her face, hoping that no one would see her wince with the stiffness in her knees. Well, it was good, anyway. Maybe she would ride again tomorrow. For now, she did not even want to think about it.
3
Deer was almost too stiff to move when she awoke the next morning, but she was determined not to show it. Stifling a groan, she rolled over and sat up, tossing aside her sleeping robe.
She had considered riding on the pole-drag this morning. Travois, the People were calling these devices now. They were trading with the French, the past decade or so, and the young people especially were beginning to use French words. Deer did not really approve. Why call her rawhide pack a parfleche, when “pack” told it all quite sufficiently?
“How are you feeling, Mother?” asked Singing Wolf.
If he had not asked, or if he had only said “good morning,” she would probably have ridden the poles. His question struck her as overly concerned, however. A little demeaning … It irritated her that her son would talk down to her in this way. Her back stiffened. “I am fine!” she snapped. “Where is Beaver Track?” “Getting the horses. Did you want yours again?” Deer would actually have been much more comfortable on the travois, or even walking, but this was not working out well. She was trapped into asserting herself.
“Of course,” she said. “Why would I not?” “Well, I … It is good, Mother,” Wolf answered.
He turned away to help with the morning preparations to travel. Deer took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. How had that happened? She could not back out now. She must ride the horse. Maybe a little exercise would help. She began to walk briskly, picki
ng up a stick or two to toss on the morning fire. It hurt to bend, hurt her back and her legs. Once she wondered whether she could straighten again, but managed it, with a barely audible groan. She hoped that no one heard.
In a short while, her sore muscles were beginning to limber up a little. By the time the column was ready to move, Running Deer was able to mount with only a little help, and it was good. At least, it was satisfying.
The event that would affect the lives of them all took place that afternoon. There were those who said later that the young men who were acting as wolves had been negligent. Maybe they had. Yet, how were they to know? There was no smoke, no sign at all that a sizable camp was nestled in that ravine.
The first sign was the distant whinny of a horse. Instantly, the tired horses in the column pricked ears forward. Several gave answering calls. No one paid much attention. A stray horse, nothing more.
The wolves were instantly alert. Theirs was the responsibility to make sure. The People were on good terms with all of their neighbors just now, but it was always possible that outsiders might enter their territory. It would not do to be careless. A war party probing into a new area might inflict considerable damage.
One of the scouts reined his horse to the left to separate himself from the other, and they approached the crest of the little rise at the same time. Both stopped now, and sat, staring for a few moments. Then one wheeled his mount and came back toward the column at a full gallop.
“Stop!” he shouted ahead. “Something is wrong here. Where is Singing Wolf? Where is Broken Lance?”
In a matter of moments, the young holy man and the band chieftain had moved their horses forward to meet the frantic scout.
“What is it?” demanded Broken Lance.
The young wolf was visibly shaken, and for an instant could only point.
“A camp!” he mumbled finally. “A band … almost as large as ours. Maybe thirty lodges …”
“But what …” Singing Wolf started to say.
It was apparent that something was very wrong. There was no smoke, no noise, nothing at all to indicate a camp of this size. Just then, there was a slight shift in the breeze, and Singing Wolf caught a hint, a slight suggestion, of what might lie in the ravine beyond the rise. He knew, before the shaken scout spoke again, what he was about to say, because Wolf knew the smell of death.
“They are all dead!” blurted the young man.
“Let us stop where we are,” Broken Lance said quickly. “No one goes in until we know more. Pass the word.”
The scout turned to do so, and the chief turned to Singing Wolf.
“Holy man, will you see what you can tell? Choose who will go with you.”
Singing Wolf nodded. “My brother, Beaver Track.”
“It is good. I go, too,” said Broken Lance. “That is enough.”
It did not take long to ready themselves. Word passed quickly through the band as the three men rode forward. No one else was to approach until more could be learned about what lay in the ravine. There was some natural curiosity, of course. But anyone who tried to approach would be prevented from doing so. If the social pressure of custom failed, the rule would be enforced by warriors of the Bowstring Society, who rode slowly back and forth between the now halted column and the ravine ahead. Broken Lance was a member of that warrior society, and sometimes called on them to enforce the rulings of the council. Or in this case, his own ruling.
Singing Wolf realized that the old chief must consider this a very serious situation. Lance did not often call on the warrior society to enforce any ruling, especially his own. Broken Lance had always relied greatly on loyalty and good judgment among his followers. Wolf had long marveled at the way the chief could obtain the desired decisions from the council. Each participant usually seemed to feel that the final outcome had been his own idea.
The present situation had allowed no time for diplomacy. Lance had simply announced how it would be, and called on the Bowstrings to enforce it. By this abrupt decision, everyone realized that the unplanned halt was based on a matter of extreme importance.
Singing Wolf, as he rode forward beside the old chief, felt that the whole thing was unreal. It is not a usual thing to come upon an abandoned village. People of the prairie often move, yes. But they take their lodges with them. Sometimes, maybe, an old lodge skin might be left behind, as its owners assumed the use of the new.
However, that was not what the wolves had said. A whole village abandoned with the lodges intact? Not even abandoned, maybe. The smell of death was strong now. Could everyone have been killed by a war party? But the People would surely have heard of such a war in their territory, and they knew of no other tribe here, even. Not one of this description. Their allies the Head Splitters frequently camped in the area. But there had been Head Splitters at the Sun Dance. Since that nation had no Sun Dance of its own, there were usually quite a few who chose to participate in the ceremony of the People. They would have said something, would they not? If they had known … No, this was not likely a band of that nation.
Occasionally, a band of the Trader People would be encountered. They were usually welcome, because they had good things to trade. Exotic stone knives and arrow points made of flints of strange colors … pink, white, yellow, black … In recent years, even some metal knives and points. Strange food items, too, from faraway places. But when the Traders came through, everyone knew, because they traded with all.
There were others, sometimes. Cheyenne, the “finger-cutters” in hand-sign. Comanche, from the south, whose sign was like the motion of a snake. Surely, though, the presence of these groups would have been known. And, according to the wolves’ description, this was not a war party, but a village, of skin lodges. That meant women and children.
Someone had asked if this might be a band of Shaved Heads from the east. Or Horn People, or even Kenzas from the northern range of the People. All of these groups were known to move out into the prairie sometimes for a summer buffalo hunt.
The wolves were indignant over this question.
“Do you think we would not know a hunting camp of Kenzas?” one snapped irritably. “These are skin lodges, like our own. This is the camp of a band much like ours!”
Broken Lance had stopped such argument with an impatient gesture, and the three had moved toward the rise.
Now, Singing Wolf could see the tips of the lodge poles ahead. They seemed to sprout from behind the ridge as the horsemen advanced up the slope. The smell of death was strong now. Wolf felt his neck hairs bristle. The strange thought crossed his mind that they were approaching the Other Side, with the spirit-world just beyond this ridge. But no, surely the death smell was a thing of this world, not of the other. But are they not all the same? Yet, surely the Other Side would not smell of death … Or would it? He wished that he could talk of this with his father.
It was almost a relief to see as they topped the rise that there were burial scaffolds in the ravine. Not in close proximity to the lodges, but a few bow shots’ distance away, as it should be. Quite a number, though … A quick estimate of the number of lodges and of scaffolds showed that perhaps half the families of the band must be in mourning. A great tragedy of some sort …
They sat on the ridge, trying to understand. The well-ordered camp of lodges lay before them, with no sign of life. A breeze barely stirred an eagle feather hanging on a warrior’s shield in front of one of the lodges. It took a moment for Wolf to realize that this should not be. If the warrior who owned the shield was alive, its presence said that he was at home. Yet there was no sign that any of these lodges was inhabited. No activity, no smoke from cooking fires, no sound. Only dead silence. Dead … If the owner of that shield were dead, it should be with him on the funeral scaffold, so that he might use it on the Other Side. It must be one way or the other, yet it was not. Other strange thoughts flitted through Wolf’s mind. Why were there no dogs? A camp of this size would usually have a large number of dogs, yet there were none. Was th
is a nation who did not have dogs? Surely not. Could there be such a nation? The People had used dogs to carry packs since Creation, it was assumed. Dogs were not: so important for that purpose now, since the coming of the horse. Their other use, though, was still valid, especially in a season of poor hunting. The People had long had a small, chunky sort of dog, different from the one they had used as a pack animal. Both could be used as food, but the meat type fattened well on scraps from the cooking of food for the families of the People …
Where were the dogs of this village? Wolf could only think that the dogs always follow a band when the lodges are struck for a move. But they follow the people, not the lodges. The strangers of this band, then, must have left their camp, because there were no dogs. But, to leave their lodges …?
“There are some horses,” Beaver Track pointed.
Across the ravine, a scattered group of horses grazed peacefully. No more than ten or twelve … Those that might be left behind in an urgent situation, it appeared.
But what urgent situation? Not an attack … There was no damage evident. Something from which people were dying, yet there had been others to prepare them for burial. Then, suddenly, they decided to leave. Had they been afraid? Of what? Of whatever killed the others, Wolf realized.
A chill gripped his heart, and he was not certain that he wanted to know. At the same time, he realized that for the safety of the People, they must find out.
4
Very gingerly the three riders made their way down the slope and into the village.
“I am made to think,” said Singing Wolf, “that we should touch nothing until we know more.”
His voice sounded high and strained, even to himself. He had not encountered a feeling like this before. An unfamiliar spirit hovered here, one that was evil and very dangerous. The horses were skittish, snorting at the smell of death and sidestepping nervously.
Child of the Dead Page 2
