Sighting over the long barrel of the weapon, he pulled back the jaw holding the flint, hoping that the loud click would not be heard by the animals. When the picture of the buffalo appeared right, the barrel pointed low and behind the front leg, he began to squeeze the trigger. The flint fell, knocking the frizzen aside with a shower of sparks and igniting the priming powder in the pan. A flash of fire and smoke obscured his vision, and a fraction of a heartbeat later the main charge boomed.
Wolf already knew, as he pulled the trigger that his shot was true. A shooter can tell, sometimes, as he can with the bow. The cottony smoke began to clear, and the yearling lay kicking in the grass. The others had fled.
“It is good!” exclaimed Beaver Track, behind him.
They hurried over to begin the task of butchering.
“We cannot handle all of the meat,” observed Wolf. “Let us take our mother a haunch, then return here to pack a horse with more for our families.”
First, though, he turned the head to a lifelike position, propped it there, and stepped back to address it.
“We are sorry to kill you, my brother, but on your flesh our lives depend, as the lives of yours depend on the grass. May your people prosper.”
The apology finished, they began the work. The day was becoming hot, and flies gathered quickly.
“This is not going well,” mumbled Beaver Track. “We have no pack saddle. How can we travel with meat?”
Singing Wolf was beginning to feel the same way. Meat, not cared for properly, would begin to spoil quickly on a day like this. Usually the women supervised the butchering and processing, while the men helped with the heavier parts. Just now, the two found themselves clumsy at the unfamiliar work.
“Let us take our mother some of the better parts. We can wrap the meat in part of the hide,” suggested Beaver Track.
That plan was quickly accomplished. They removed a large, irregular piece of the skin and spread it on the grass, flesh side up. On this, they began to place choice cuts … the tongue, loin, part of the liver, and strips from the haunch that would cure easily by drying.
“We cannot handle much more,” said Beaver Track finally. He glanced at the sun.
Neither mentioned it, hut the day was passing. They would not overtake the band until nightfall. They tied the clumsy bundle to the saddle of Wolf’s horse, and he rode the bay bareback, retracing their path to the camp of their mother.
“I did not need anything!!” she flared angrily. “You should be taking care of your own families! Go now!”
She had heard the distant shot, and was concerned for a little while. Yet, since there was only one, she had reasoned correctly what had occurred. She was not surprised when her sons returned with the gift of meat. Her face softened.
“Still,” she said, “it was a good thought. No, do not come any closer. I will pick it up after you leave. Just drop it there.”
The two untied the bundle and lifted it to the ground. Wolf adjusted the saddle, mounted, and picked up the rein of the bay.
“Aiee, Mother,” he said. “You might have stolen a better horse!”
Running Deer smiled inwardly. She well understood that remark. The gaits of the bay were quite uncomfortable, as she well knew. She appreciated her son’s wry humor. Maybe, even, it was an attempt to tell her that he understood. But she did not want to show weakness. She swallowed hard and tried to sound stern as she spoke.
“It was a good thought, to bring the meat,” she repeated, “though we did not need it. Maybe you were raised well, after all. Now go. You have far to travel.”
The two men did not speak until they reached the buffalo kill. They stopped and dismounted. Buzzards were gathering overhead, circling warily high above before descending. On a knoll a little distance away, a coyote sat, watching.
“Beaver,” said Singing Wolf, “I cannot ride that pack horse all the way to the night camp. Maybe we can each carry a bundle of meat, tied to our saddles.”
His brother nodded. “Maybe. Would it keep, on a day this hot?”
“Maybe not.” Spoiled meat could be dangerous.
“Wolf, I am made to think we have done all we can. Our wives will be worried about us. Let us hurry on.”
Singing Wolf thought about it for a little while, then turned to look at the distant coyote.
“Grandfather,” he mused, “the rest belongs to you. Share with your winged brothers up there!”
Wolf referred to an old Creation story. Coyote had agreed to steal fire from Sun Boy’s torch as it slipped over Earth’s rim to the other side. As he ran with the burning brand in his mouth, the flames fanned backward with the wind of his passing, scorching his flanks and marking the race of all his descendants. He gave the fire to Man, and by their previous agreement, is to receive the leavings from every kill.
The brothers remounted and hurried on. The bay pack horse led well, but even so, shadows were springing up from low spots in the rolling prairie, to creep across the earth, growing as they went.
The trail was plain, even after darkness was nearly complete. Faint starlight was sufficient to reveal the broad pathway made by hundreds of hooves and hundreds of lodge poles whose butt ends had scored long scratches in the prairie sod.
The Seven Hunters had hardly begun to circle around the Real-star, however, before they saw the twinkling fires of the night camp. No one seemed to have sought the sleeping robes yet. A curious crowd came out to meet them, and it was apparent that there were many rumors. Singing Wolf saw Quick Otter among the others.
“Here, Uncle,” he said, handing the rein to the old warrior. “Your pack horse. Our mother had borrowed it”
“Where is your mother, Wolf?” Otter asked. “Is there trouble?”
The young holy man drew a deep breath. It might as well be told now.
“Our mother,” he began, clearly and loudly enough for all to hear, “will not be rejoining us. She wished to stay with the child at the Camp of the Dead.”
There was an excited murmur.
“But will she not die, too?”
“Maybe.” He could say no more, and they turned away to care for the horses.
It required only a little while to strip saddles and bridles and release the tired animals. They shuffled off toward the herd, and the men turned toward their families. From the camp came the wail of the Mourning Song. It sounded to Wolf like the voice of his wife, Rain. This was not going to be easy. Should one be mourned who is not yet dead? But then, how would they know when to mourn, otherwise?
A half day’s travel away, Running Deer settled down for her first night with the dead. She did appreciate the fresh meat, and now regretted having spoken so harshly to her sons. But there had been no other way. She had to make them leave her, did she not? They would have loitered around, endangering themselves, and in the end it would have done no good. No, better this way.
Gray Mouse was awake now, staring at her in wonder from large dark eyes. The child actually looked somewhat better. She had taken a few bites of raw liver, a known effective treatment for anyone with questionable health and stamina. Then a little broiled meat … Deer wondered what the child had been eating, and for how long. In hand signs, she tried to inquire.
“Dried meat. There is plenty,” the child signed, pointing.
“At your lodge?”
The girl nodded. “At any lodge. There was no one to eat it.”
The old woman thought about that for a moment. Tomorrow, she would explore the abandoned camp. There might be many things that would be useful to the two of them.
As long as there were two of them, anyway. That might not be long. She wondered how long before she would start to see the first signs of the disease in herself. And what would they be? No matter, she would know soon enough …
“How long have you been alone?” Running Deer signed.
The little girl shrugged, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Three, four sleeps, maybe.”
The heart of Running
Deer overflowed with pity for this child. Several long nights in the darkness, with the dead bodies everywhere … her own parents … aiee, how had the girl survived at all? Even Deer, an old woman, was uneasy in the area where so many spirits had recently crossed over. She shivered a little, tossed a few sticks on the fire, and then turned to spread her arms.
“Come, little Mouse,” she paused to sign. “You are not alone now.”
Somehow, she noticed, as she enfolded the thin body in her arms, I am not alone, either.
Close on the heels of this warm feeling, though, came another.
I will lose her soon, now when I have just found her.
Running Deer was afraid that another such loss would be more than she could bear. But then, she would follow soon, anyway. No matter …
8
The following morning was the first opportunity to really investigate the Camp of the Dead. Even knowing the situation, Running Deer was not prepared for the horrors that she encountered. Little Gray Mouse clung tightly to her hand. She had wished to leave the child outside the village while she explored, but Gray Mouse would not have it so.
“You will leave me!” the little girl protested in hand signs, tears streaming.
“No, no, child! Well … come along,” she beckoned. Though I do not like what we will see, Deer added, to herself.
The People had been aware of dead bodies in the camp, but had not investigated in much detail because of fear of the spirits that might cause the dreaded poch.
“Do not touch anything,” Running Deer signed. Instantly, she recognized how ridiculous that advice was. The girl had already been struck down by the poch. How could she be further harmed?
Slowly, they walked through the camp. The air was still, and the fetid odor of death hung over everything. Bodies were beginning to bloat.
We must leave this area, thought Running Deer. It is not good for a child … Or for herself either, she realized. She tried to choke back her nausea as a slight stirring of air brought a heavier scent of rotting human flesh.
She must remember her purpose here … finish her salvage and get out. Weapons … she took a bow in its case from the pole before the lodge of a warrior who would not need it again. Arrows, from the same weapon stand.
Walking among the lodges, Deer looked into the doorways. Most were empty, but some contained corpses in various stages of decay. An ax would be useful, she thought. She saw one, a shiny metal throwing ax, in the belt of a young warrior who lay on his willow backrest … He will need it on the Other Side, she told herself. That was better than admitting that she could not bear to take it from the dead warrior’s belt. She would look for another …
It was not long before she found one not in the possession of the dead. That was added to her plunder, along with a good steel knife and a small skinning knife that was better than her own. There was some guilt in taking the possessions of the dead, but after all, they could not use them here. She finally solved her dilemma with a short prayer to the spirits of the former owners.
“I will bring them to you when I cross over,” she promised. She wondered if she had become a little crazy.
What else now? Food! Gray Mouse had told her that there was plenty.
“Where is the food?” she signed.
“There … and there …” The girl quickly pointed to several lodges. “That lodge is mine,” she added.
Running Deer approached the lodge, and stooped to peer inside. She pulled back the hanging doorskin … a little different in shape than those of the People … Two bodies, a young man and woman, on beds of robes opposite the door. And the powerful, ever-present smell of death and decay.
“There is nothing here,” she signed. “Your mother and father have crossed over. Let us go.”
Gently, she allowed the doorskin to fall back in place. Then she drew it aside again and reached inside. She had seen a child’s doll, just to the right of the door-way. She drew it out … It was made of sticks, dressed in soft-tanned buckskin. Facial features were painted on the round head, made of the same material. A smiling face …
A faint odor of death clung faintly to the doll, but sunshine and fresh air would help that. She glanced at the girl, who was looking at the ground near her feet and sobbing quietly. Running Deer touched the small shoulder to attract the child’s attention, and held out the doll.
“Is this yours?” she signed.
A new rush of tears burst forth. Gray Mouse gathered the doll to her in a two-arm embrace that enfolded also the knees of the older woman. Running Deer patted the girl’s head.
“Now, now,” she crooned in her own tongue.
The girl could not understand the words, but the language of grief and of sympathy is universal, is it not?
“Come, child,” she said. “We must leave this place.”
Running Deer investigated several of the better-kept lodges for food, choosing those which held no corpses. In a short while she had assembled as much dried meat as she thought she could carry. A small amount of pemmican … She would have liked to carry more pemmican, especially from one large dwelling that seemed especially well managed. The wife or wives of that lodge had been skilled in food preparation. The pemmican, stored in casings of buffalo intestine, seemed of high quality. Not only pounded dried meat, but an assortment of berries had been kneaded into the mixture with melted tallow. The maker of that supply had been a woman who understood fine foods.
Running Deer sighed with regret. The weather was hot, and would be hotter. The pemmican would not keep well, because the tallow would become rancid. Although it would be a treat, it would not keep like the crisp strips of dried meat … She must plan for the future. As if there will be a future, she thought wryly.
She compromised at last, taking a few links of pemmican and all the dried meat they could carry. She bundled it into a bright-striped blanket from the same lodge, the clean one, adding a sack of dried corn.
She remembered Singing Wolf’s warnings, that the evil spirits of the poch cling to objects, but that was certainly a good blanket, practically new. Maybe she could cleanse it. A scrubbing in the stream with yucca suds, exposure to healing rays from Sun Boy’s torch.
Just now, she must escape from this place. Physically and emotionally, it was beginning to weigh heavily on her. More than she could bear for much longer. Even now, each time she took a deep breath, she could tell that the death-smell had saturated her own lungs. It would take some time … If she had time …
“Come,” she signed to Gray Mouse. “We go now.”
Back at their little camp, there was much to be done. Too much, really. Gray Mouse, exhausted in her already weakened condition, had fallen asleep almost instantly. I should not have pushed her so hard, thought Deer. She must be very weak.
For now, while the child slept, Running Deer built up her fire and cooked some of the fresh meat that her sons had brought. That was thoughtful, though in reality, it made more work for her. They did not realize that, she assured herself. She cut thin strips of the meat, hanging each on a rack of willow sticks that she had constructed just downwind from the fire. The smoke would discourage the flies that were always a nuisance when drying meat.
She smiled, amused at herself. Here she was, working hard to prepare the fresh meat for future use … Why? There was more than enough already in the supplies that she had salvaged from the lodges below. It was likely that the future was very short anyway, both for herself and for the sleeping girl there. The child looked so tiny, so helpless.
Deer’s attention focused on a large circular sore directly in the center of the girl’s forehead. It was yellowish and wet-looking, as wide as a man’s finger, and dark in the center. It seemed darker … no, the dark portion was larger, than on the previous day. A wave of alarm swept over her. It was apparent that the sores on the dead bodies in the camp were completely black and scabbed. She realized now that this must be how it happens. The sores become dark and dry and the sufferer dies. Yes, there on the should
er … a smaller circle, but it, too, had a dark center today. Young Gray Mouse was a day closer to death than she had been yesterday.
But so am I! Running Deer thought. So is everyone! She smiled grimly.
While the child slept, she carried the bright-striped blanket to the stream and scrubbed it, then stepped out of her dress and slipped into the cool water. She cleansed her body completely, washed her hair … She wished that it was possible to wash out her lungs. A deep breath still caused her to taste the scent of decay. She experimented with several very deep breaths in succession, hoping that this would force out the remnants of stale air. She could not tell whether it made any difference.
The bath did make her feel better, though. She was still luxuriating in its cool comfort when the girl stirred and woke. Deer hurried out of the water and picking up her dress, and the blanket, quickly covered the few steps to the Camp.
“Where were you?” Gray Mouse signed.
“In the water. Soon you can do that, too.”
She felt that she lied. She did not know what the effect of water might be on the sores of the poch, but did not think it would be good. It seemed unlikely that this child would ever be able to swim again.
Running Deer spread the striped blanket over a bush to dry in the sun, and turned to the fire. The broiling meat was nearly done … She rotated it, and then looked at the drying rack. That, too, was progressing nicely. A little more wood on the fire …
“We can eat soon,” she signed.
“It is good.”
They ate, and the exhausted little girl fell asleep again. Running Deer felt a pang of guilt at having kept the child on her feet so long while they explored the village. But what could I have done? The child would not stay alone…
Running Deer had donned her dress again, after her skin dried in the sun. Now she sat, watching the sleeping girl. What was to be done? Seldom in her life had there been a time like this, with no pressing tasks. Even after her husband’s death, there were things in need of doing. Now … it struck her that she did not know what was needed. How long would they need food, shelter? There was no way to know.
Child of the Dead Page 5
