“Forever?”
“Yes, I am made to think so.”
“So, what are we talking of, Wolf?”
“Well, we must be planning for winter. Shall we go to Sycamore River?”
“Is it safe?” his brother asked again.
“It is as I said, Beaver. We do not know. But if both our lodges are healthy, we should be no danger to each other.”
Beaver Track nodded, unsure.
“Then, if that goes well, we could rejoin the others,” Singing Wolf went on.
“How soon would we know?” asked Beaver.
Wolf shrugged. “Who knows? Say, half a moon? We could hunt together a little, meanwhile, prepare a little meat for winter, then decide.”
“It is good,” stated Beaver Track, rising. “Will your family come to my lodge this evening?”
Wolf smiled and clasped his brother’s hand. “It is good!” he said huskily.
There was no new outbreak of poch when the two lodges joined company. The theory of Wolf seemed to hold true. It was good to see the children at play, and the wives happily visiting again. And there was optimism. If this proved successful, they would seek out other families.
It was decided that when the moon was full, they would begin to travel toward the selected winter camp. Meanwhile, there was no point in moving the big lodges. That was a major undertaking, and not worth the effort for half a moon’s time.
Each day brought more optimism. There were no signs of the return of the poch. The brothers, working together, downed a fat yearling buffalo cow, and the meat and the hide were quickly processed into pemmican, dried strips, and rawhide.
Finally, the moon signaled the selected departure. The lodges of both families came down, belongings were packed, and the horses rounded up. It was hard to travel with so few to do the work. Normally there were eager young men to drive the horse herd and to chase after strays. In this case, though there were no more than thirty animals, there were also no young men. Someone must lead the way, and this fell to Beaver Track, as the most experienced scout. Singing Wolf would bring up the rear and keep the horses together, while the two wives managed the pack horses and assorted youngsters. Dark Antelope, the oldest of the children, assisted his father with the horses at the rear. It was the most important task assigned to him in all of his eight years, and he reacted with pride and dignity. His mount, of course, was a great help, a veteran at this sort of work.
“Aiee!” exclaimed Wolf when they paused for a noon halt. “I had forgotten. Riding rear guard is not easy!”
“True,” laughed his brother. “Especially when you herd horses too. Is it dusty?”
“Not too bad. The rain yesterday helped, maybe. What I really miss are the wolves.”
“I, too! I have worried all morning.”
Both men laughed. Under normal circumstances there would have been a scout or two ahead and behind, and another well out on each flank. There was actually little danger now. Enemies were few, and the task of serving as wolves was mostly that of an honor guard, and to gain experience for young warriors in case of trouble later. There was always a chance of newcomers into the area, whose motives might be questionable.
There were also those who might be opportunists. Horn People on the north, Shaved Heads to the east, even Snakes to the south, all wasted no love for the People. It had been one of the concerns when the band had split up, and it must still be so. Wolf hoped devoutly that the word of this troubled summer experienced by the People would not become widespread. Then another thought came to him. Word of the poch, the spotted death, might keep others, potential enemies, away! That was almost amusing. But not quite.
The noon halt over, the little column moved on. It was a good day to travel. A good day to be alive, really. The ripe freshness after the recent rain had intensified the colors and scents of the prairie. There was a profusion of color. The bright golden yellow of the sunflowers and other autumn plants mingled with several kinds of brilliant purple. Flocks of blackbirds, assembling for the migration to the south, wheeled and maneuvered in preparation. Quail and their summer’s broods were beginning to join together in coveys of thirty or forty birds, their defense in sheer numbers.
Deer, too, were beginning to group together. It was not quite rutting season yet, so the does and their young were grouping together, while the males kept apart, also in small bands. Their new antlers, still fur-covered, were too fragile to be of much use.
A coyote watched the little band of travelers from a distant ridge as they passed. Singing Wolf wondered if the coyote was trying to decide whether this was a hunting party, worth following for his share of the kills.
Not today, Uncle, he thought with amusement. But good hunting to you!
When they stopped for the night, Beaver Track rode out in a wide circle around the camp. It would be good to avoid any surprises. He returned to report nothing of a threatening nature.
‘There is a village of Growers over there. Shall we ride over after we settle in?”
‘“Go ahead,” called his wife. “We will start the fire. We have food, water, and wood,”
It seemed a good plan. It was wise to let the Growers know they were in the area, and they had talked to no one for some time. There might be useful news.
“Here,” said Rain, handing her husband a packet of pemmican. “A gift, or maybe you can trade. We could use some beans.”
Wolf reached down for the packet, and they cantered away. Both men were silent for a little while, and then Beaver Track spoke.
“What if they have the poch?”
Singing Wolf had been thinking the same thing. This season there was a different kind of danger on the prairie. It might be as hazardous to meet a friend as an enemy. All rules of etiquette had changed.
“If they have,” said Wolf grimly, “we touch nothing, drop our gift, and leave quickly, no?”
18
“We had heard of this sickness,” the Grower chief said carefully. “It has struck your people?”
“Not our lodges. Mine, or my brother’s here.”
“Wait … How are you called?”
“I am Singing Wolf … Elk-dog People, Southern band. This is Beaver Track, my brother.”
The Grower nodded, still cautious. Normally these introductions would have come first, but there was new urgency this season. Before the visitors had even introduced themselves, they had been challenged with questions about the spotted sickness.
“I know of you. You are a holy man,” the Grower went on. “It is good. Now tell me of your People and the sickness. Yours is the band of Broken Lance, no?”
Briefly, Wolf told of the finding of the abandoned camp, and of No Tail Squirrel and his misfortune in finding the saddled horse.
“We are made to think that the horse or its blanket carried the sickness,” he explained. “The man became ill, then his family, then another lodge. Our Southern band divided for safety.”
He hesitated to state news of that sort. If their vulnerability became widely known, aiee! That would not be good. But the dispersion of the Southern band was probably already known anyway.
“Our two lodges have been spared,” he went on. “Of others, we have not heard. Has the sickness been here?”
The Grower shook his head. “No. A trader was here, and he told that your people had sickened.”
“All of them? Other bands?”
“I do not know. Maybe only yours. But the trader was frightened. He and his wife were leaving the hills here.”
“They were not sick?”
“No, no. They did not wish to be, though.”
“Where did they go? The sickness may be everywhere.”
“South. We had heard of none there.”
That news was likely to be as accurate as any. Traders talked to everyone, and had wide knowledge of happenings across the plains.
“Wait!” Wolf had another thought. “Was this trader a white man?”
“French? No, no. Arapaho … Trader Pe
ople. The white traders stay in one place, no?”
“That is true,” Wolf agreed. He had decided not to express his thought that maybe the whites were the source of the poch.
“Where do you go now?” the Grower asked.
“Sycamore River. Our band will winter there. But we do not know how many.”
“Ah, my heart is heavy for your people. But your two lodges are healthy. There may be others. And surely, this too will pass!”
They offered their gift of pemmican and obtained a sack of beans and another of corn. The sympathy of the Growers was apparent as they parted.
“May your people winter well, Singing Wolf.”
“And yours, Uncle!”
The two families moved on. Nights were growing colder now, and the colors of the trees beginning to change. Sumac thickets on the slopes flared to brilliant reds for a few days before dropping their leaves. The cottonwood leaves of shiny, fluttering green became golden yellow almost overnight, seeming to glow with their brilliance. Oaks reddened.
The prairie grasses, too, heralded cooler weather with more subtle changes in color. Tall spires of blue-green plume grass shot up to the height of a man in a few short days, and blossomed in golden feathery glory. The first frosts would change the blue stems and leaves to a pale yellow. By contrast the big real-grass, also tall and bluish in color, would become a rich burgundy. “Little” real-grass, shorter and softer, became a softer color also, a muted pink with curls of white seed heads along the stems.
Geese and ducks were becoming restless, seeming to know that there was something that they must do, but undecided yet. Small flocks of water birds began to gather, bands of a dozen or so honking noisily as they beat their way a short distance from one body of water to another. The beginnings of the long lines that would mark their migration could be seen. Young birds, still experimenting, formed, dissolved, and reformed the precise V-shaped lines that are the symbols of their kind.
The eaters of flying insects, the swallows and martins and flycatchers, were already gone. The first hard frost would eliminate their food supply. Long-standing instinctive memory reminded them of shortening days and hunger ahead, and they must leave.
With the other creatures of the prairie, the People became restless, too. Even in the comfortably warm sunlight of autumn, they too felt the restlessness that may be a frustrated migration urge. It whispers into the ears of the human race, as it does to the swallow or the geese, that the time is at; hand: there is something that you must do! It has become less well defined in humans, perhaps. It has been dulled along with our other sensibilities. Humans draw farther away from the real world, that of the spirit, and into a complicated muddle that is known as progress. But they still hear the whisper, and feel the concern at certain seasons of the year. There is something …
For the two brothers of the People with their families it was more apparent. Migrate a little bit, move south a little way, hunt, prepare for winter!
Just how to do this had been a question, but it was now decided. They would go to the specified camping place on Sycamore River. It was well known to the People. They had used it before, only a few winters ago. They would winter there, whether any other families arrived or not.
As they moved in that direction, they had two main concerns. One, of course, was food. They had seen no great migrating herds of buffalo yet. There were scattered individuals and small bands, and there should be no problem. Of course, what should be … aiee, there should not have been the spotted death!
A more threatening concern was that of their vulnerability. A traveling group with only two warriors was at risk if they encountered a large body of potential enemies. Even a small war party of Shaved Heads or Horn People would badly outnumber the fighters of the two families. True, the two women were skilled in the use of weapons, but there were the children to think of. And the women themselves … two attractive young women of the People. There had always been enemies who desired young women of the People for wives. Tall, long-legged, women with spirit … Our women are prettier than theirs, the old saying went.
So the two brothers were concerned as they traveled. Nothing had been said. It was unnecessary. The women knew it, too. There was danger. For a little while, there had been a greater danger, from the poch, but now things seemed to be getting back to some semblance of normal, with the normal dangers of small-group travel.
“How far do you think it might be to Sycamore River?” asked Singing Wolf.
Beaver Track shrugged. “Maybe six, eight sleeps. You think so?”
Wolf nodded. “Something like that.”
“Why have we seen no one else?” asked Beaver.
It was a question that both had been afraid to voice. For a while it had been good to see no one. They would have chosen not to do so. Any traveler might be either a potential enemy or some of their own people, carrying the poch. Either would not be good.
But now … In approaching winter camp, they were assuming that the threat of the spotted death was lessening, perhaps over. Then where are the others? Wolf thought.
He tried to convince himself that everyone was being cautious. Maybe some would choose not to winter together. It was even possible that in some of the widely dispersed families the poch was still rampant. He knew that his brother must have been thinking along these same lines. Now it was out in the open. There was another cause for concern. Are we all that is left of the Southern band?
There flitted through his mind the thought that they might find it necessary to join another of the bands. They could not do so this winter, but if they survived, it might come to such a move. Then yet another dread struck him. What about the other bands? Had the poch struck them too? Are we all that is left of the People?
He hesitated to mention that possibility yet, though he was sure that the others would have the same suspicion.
That question was partially answered two days later. Beaver Track, in the lead, approached a rise and suddenly jerked his horse around to retreat a few steps. With hand signals he motioned for a stop, and Wolf kicked his horse forward, his heart pounding.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Other travelers,” Beaver said softly. “Only a few bow shots away.”
“A war party?”
“I think not. They have pole-drags.”
That was good. Families in transit do not seek a fight. Unless …
“How many?”
If it were a large band, a few young men might think it great sport to harass or attack as small a party as their two families.
“I only had a quick look, Wolf. I saw three or four travois. It may be three lodges.”
“It is good. They may be our people.”
The two men crept up the slope to look over the ridge. There in the near distance straggled a column of travelers much like their own. A little larger, maybe. A couple of young men pushed a herd of some sixty horses along behind. The party was heading southwest, and their route would join the vague trail followed by the brothers at some point ahead.
“Who are they?” asked Wolf. “Can you tell?”
Beaver Track lay on his belly and curled both his hands into loose fists. Then he placed them together and peered through the tunnel formed by his hands. With part of the unneeded light eliminated, a sharper image presented itself.
“I cannot … ah! The man on the left, there … Wolf, is that not the blue stallion of Yellow Bear? And yes, that is Bear! It is good! Our own people.”
They rose and watched the procession for a little while. Rain came walking up the hill.
“What is it?” she asked, a little irritably. “I am made to think that you two would not stand up if there was danger. But you might tell us, too.”
“I am sorry, Rain,” Singing Wolf told her. “You see, there … We think that to be the family of Yellow Bear, no?”
She studied the distant column. “Yes, maybe. Those two on the flanks may be his sons. But Bear had three, did he not?”
“Maybe so …”
The doubt was there, dark and heavy, hanging in the air between them.
“Maybe one of them took his family somewhere else,” Beaver Track suggested.
No one answered, but all were thinking the same thing. If the extended family of old Yellow Bear had been struck by the spotted sickness, how many had died?
Even more important, were any still sick?
“Will we camp with them tonight?” asked Rain.
The brothers looked at each other for a moment.
“Maybe,” said Wolf slowly. “We must be sure …”
“Look, Wolf,” Beaver Track interrupted, “I will go and see how it goes with them. Then we can decide.”
“It is good,” Singing Wolf agreed. “But I will go.”
Beaver Track thought about it for a moment. “Yes,” he said finally. “You know more of such things.”
“Anyway,” Wolf said as he swung to his saddle, “we will have some news today of the People!”
19
The meeting with the families of Yellow Bear and his sons was as cautious as that of the brothers earlier.
Wolf had ridden forward to overtake the column and initiate contact.
“Ah-koh, Uncle,” Singing Wolf called as they approached.
Yellow Bear rode to meet him, flanked by one of his sons.
“It is Singing Wolf, and my brother, Beaver Track,” Wolf called out. “Beaver is back there with our families.”
Yellow Bear drew his horse to a stop some twenty paces away.
“I see who you are, Wolf. How is it with your families? Do you have the spotted sickness?”
“No, no, Uncle. Have you?”
“We did have. My son Hunts Antelope is dead. Two of his sons … The wife of my other son Lame Wolf, and her baby.”
“Aiee! My heart is heavy for you, Uncle. Are any still sick?”
The old warrior shook his head. “No, that was three moons ago. We have mourned, and it is behind us. Things happen … You have had no sickness?”
Child of the Dead Page 11
