“No, not in Beaver’s lodge or mine.”
“It is good. You are moving to winter camp?”
“Yes. We did not know how many will be left. Have you heard? We talked to Growers who said the band is scattered,” Wolf answered.
“But we knew that. What of the other bands?”
“We have heard nothing.”
“Nor have we.”
“May we join you, Uncle?” Wolf asked respectfully.
In normal times the question would not even be asked. But these times were not normal. With lives at stake, one becomes quite cautious. However, Yellow Bear did not hesitate.
“Of course. How far …?”
“Just over the hill. Go ahead. We will join you at night camp.”
“It is good,” said the old warrior.
Singing Wolf turned his horse, but Bear called him back.
“Wolf!”
“Yes, Uncle?”
“My heart is good,” Yellow Bear said clumsily. “It is good to see our People again.”
“That is true, Uncle. May we soon find more.”
It was two days later that Beaver Track, scouting ahead, saw the trail of another party on the move. He dismounted to examine the signs left by the unknown travelers.
Horses … many of them. They had followed or perhaps were driven over a trail left by travois poles. It took a little time to decipher the complicated mixture of sign. The grooves made by the pole-drags were partly obscured by the hooves of the horse herd which followed. Several travois, it: appeared from the deep grooves in the prairie soil. “Deep” translated instantly in his mind to heavy loads, probably lodge covers. Several of them, at least three.
One final piece of information that might have seemed trivial was most important of all. It was a strip of soft-tanned leather less than a hand’s span in length, dirty and worn. The very fact of its condition spoke to Beaver Track of what it was, the ornament from the heel of a warrior’s moccasin. It was a sort of symbolic thing, originated by the Elk-dog Society when the People first acquired the horse. It identified the wearer as a horseman. The dangling decoration, in principle, states that the wearer is a rider, a man of dignity, and not one who walks in the dust. It is apparent that even a horseman also walks in the dust sometimes. The proud decoration drags behind his steps, and becomes worn and disheveled. It is frequently lost and must be replaced.
One of these lost ornaments was the object which brought a special smile to the face of Beaver Track. Only a few nations in the tallgrass prairie used such a decoration. And the only man who would be likely here, in a party of this size, would be a member of the Elk-dog Warrior Society of the People.
Beaver swung to his saddle and turned on the back trail.
“Some of our people are ahead,” he reported to his brother, waving the leather thong.
“Ah! Elk-dog warriors … How many? Did you talk to them?” Wolf asked.
“No, no. They are maybe a day ahead. Three, four lodges. Many horses. The horses covered the pole tracks, mostly.”
“A party much like ours, then? Of the People … They must be Southern band, too, no?”
Beaver Track nodded. “I was made to think so, Wolf. They must be heading to the winter camp, too.”
For the next day or two there was much speculation as to the identity of those ahead. Ashes of the cooking fires left by the party ahead indicated more about them. There might be five lodges. Some children, maybe an infant, judging from the yellow color of the excrement on a piece of soft moss that had been used to wipe a small behind. This was an encouraging sign. There were survivors, possibly born after the spotted poch sickness had passed.
It was a joyful reunion when they arrived at the designated camp. There were at least ten of the big lodges already in place up and down the broad meadow. All doorways faced east, and each family had chosen a sheltered site, protected by trees and brush from the winds that would soon howl out of the north.
There were tearful cries of joy at the discovery that a friend or relative still lived. Mingled with such cries were wails of anguish as someone learned of a loss. The Song of Mourning echoed along the river. Nearly every lodge had been visited by death at the hand of the dreaded poch.
But life is for the living, and goes on. Already there were changes. The widow of No Tail Squirrel had moved into the lodge of her sister as a second wife to the sister’s husband, Crooked Horn. Another pair of sisters, both widowed, were being avidly courted by a handsome young man of the Blood Society. It had already become a ribald joke in the camp. No one was certain … Either he could not decide between the two sisters, or they would not be parted. He might have to take both … A lodge with two wives and three children, already established. That would be quite a change for a young man still living with his parents. There were many chuckles, and mock wagers about the young man’s ability to handle the situation.
“Let him try!” giggled an old woman. “They can teach him. Or I can! He looks good to me!”
Only a day or two later the extended family of Broken Lance arrived, also with some empty places around the fire. The chief sought out Singing Wolf.
“Ah-koh, Uncle,” Wolf greeted respectfully. “It is good to see you.”
“And you! How does it seem now?” The old leader was direct and to the point.
“It is hard to tell yet, Uncle. Have you seen any of the spotted poch in the last moon?”
“No. Maybe it has passed.”
“I am made to think so,” Wolf agreed. “We talked to some Growers. They had escaped it, but were afraid.”
Broken Lance nodded. “We, too. Yet I have heard of no new sickness.”
“Nor have we. Do you know of the other bands?”
“Oh!” the chief exclaimed. “There was a trader … He had been with the Mountain band. They had none. Red Rocks, I cannot say, but they are far away.”
“The Northern band?” Wolf asked.
Broken Lance shook his head. “The Growers we visited said they are not sick. But that was only a story from someone else.”
Wolf nodded. “But generally true. What of the others?”
The old man was quiet for a moment, and finally spoke. “I fear for them, Wolf. Both the Eastern band and the New People are closer to the traders. If the poch comes from there … aiee!”
“Well, we will learn later.”
“Yes … maybe.”
By the time the moon was full again, it appeared that all of the families of the scattered Southern band had returned. All that would … There had been mourning in nearly every lodge, and there were brief episodes of mourning for a little while as people learned of the loss of a friend or relative.
It appeared to Singing Wolf that the band had lost about one in three. There were nearly as many lodges as before, but some sheltered the remains of two or even three families who had combined.
Another thing occurred to him as he watched the preparations for winter. Usually, in a time of sickness, those who were stricken had been the young and weak, or the old and infirm. This time it was not so. The deaths had occurred without regard to age or status. Young, old, wives and mothers, children, the elders and the youths, even warriors in the glory of young manhood.
Among those who had survived, most were severely marked. The bright red spots, round scars the size of a thumbprint, could be seen on the faces of fully half the people in the band. Wolf supposed that they would fade in time to be the color of normal skin. It was already apparent, however, that the scars would be visible. Nearly all showed a deep circular depression, a pit with clearly marked edges. It would long be a reminder of the Year of Spotted Sickness.
That would be the theme of the painting which Wolf must place on the Story Skins. The annual depiction of the history of the People was intended to represent the most important event of the year. Surely there had been no more important happening for some time. Certainly not since his father, Walks in the Sun, had handed down the office and the responsibility at the tim
e of his death. He gazed at the silver dangles on the Spanish bit, the Elk-dog Medicine emblem of the People. He had inherited the custody of that talisman at the same time.
It was not used in a horse’s mouth any more … It had not been for many generations. According to the legend and the paintings on the skins, it had been worn by the First Horse. And that in turn had been ridden by an ancestor of Singing Wolf, an outsider who had heavy fur upon his face. Heads Off, he was called, according to the story. The reason for that was rather vague, at least in the mind of Singing Wolf. Was the ability to remove his head and replace it some sort of a trick or illusion? Wolf had studied the Story Skins and was inclined to believe that what Heads Off had removed was a hat or headdress of some kind. It appeared round and smooth in the pictographs …
His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of his brother.
“Ah-koh!” greeted Beaver Track. “Wolf, I have been thinking. The buffalo are coming, and we will have the hunt in three days, maybe. Our wolves are watching them.”
“It is good.”
“Yes … but Wolf, we have fewer hunters. Are there enough to carry out a proper Fall Hunt?”
It was a question. A number of mounted hunters would be needed to surround a part of the herd and force the animals to run where they could be pursued and killed. Would there be enough riders?
“I … I am made to think so, Beaver. It will be a smaller hunt. But we have fewer mouths to feed this winter. I will talk to Broken Lance.”
“It is good. You will sing and pray for the hunt, too, Wolf?”
“Of course!”
Beaver Track stooped to leave the lodge, but then turned back for a moment. He appeared uneasy.
“Wolf …”
“Yes. What is it, Beaver?”
“Wolf, there are many who wear the tracks of the poch, no?”
“Yes …” He was unsure what his brother was suggesting.
“Well, I was thinking … Many have sickened and then survived.”
“That is true.”
“We have mourned our mother, but …”
Wolf saw his brother’s thought now, before it was spoken. Aiee, why had they not thought of this before? They had assumed that Running Deer would have been a victim of the spotted death. There had been nothing else there, at the Camp of the Dead.
But what if she had survived?
“Wolf, we have to go and look for her,” Beaver Track said.
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It was true. They must know, must find out if she lived. It would probably infuriate their mother when they came searching, if she had survived, because her action had been a suicide gesture. But that had been hers to choose, as it should be.
Now it was different. If she had survived the poch, she might have changed her mind. And certainly it was unlikely that she could survive the winter alone. Wolf doubted that she would do such a thing as seek shelter among the Growers. Running Deer’s pride would make her starve before she was reduced to begging. Aiee, to be blessed with so stubborn a parent!
But before they could even try to consider such a thing, they must be sure whether she had survived the sickness.
“We must go back there,” Wolf said thoughtfully.
“What about the hunt?”
“We should help with that,” Wolf agreed, “but be ready to leave as soon as it is finished. How long will we have to travel, Beaver?”
“I do not know. We can go fast and light.”
“It is good.”
He knew it was not. It was dangerous … It would be a tough, demanding journey, with the threat of the first winter storm hanging over them. But he could see no other way. He explained the situation to Rain, who agreed.
“Let us make you a pack of food for traveling. Green Heron and Beaver will do the same. Then you can leave as soon as the hunt is finished. I will talk to her.”
Wolf nodded. “It is good. But we will help with the heaviest part of the hunt.”
Rain dismissed the offer with a wave of her hand. “Do you think we are helpless? Heron and I can do it.”
“But the skinning …”
“Look, Wolf! You roll the carcass over with a horse to finish skinning the other side, no? We can do that. The butchering is ours, anyway.”
He had to agree. The management of processing the bounty of the Fall Hunt, or any other hunt, was organized by the women. Among the People, whose women were held in high regard, their men often helped with physically demanding jobs. The heavy chore of lifting the massive lodge covers was assisted by the husbands, under direction of the wives.
It was true also of the butchering. The sheer physical effort of positioning a heavy carcass, including the use of a horse, was quite often done by a husband at his wife’s request. There were good-natured jokes about their allies, the Head Splitters, whose women did not enjoy quite the same status. A woman whose husband was less than cooperative might chide him with a sarcastic remark: “Aiee! Did I marry a Head Splitter?”
As a result of the cooperative attitude of their men, however, the women of the People were quick to do what was needed in emergencies such as this.
“Do not worry on it,” Rain urged. “You and Beaver must go as soon as you can. Heron and I will manage for our lodges.”
She began to fill a rawhide pack with strips of dried meat, light and easy to carry, but nourishing.
The hunt, which had been questionable because of fewer hunters, was good. Everyone knew that its success would be critical to the winter food supply. Therefore, the planning had been meticulous. Each ceremony, every prayer, and every offering of tobacco to the spirits were carried out with heartfelt reverence.
The wolves carefully manipulated the herd to the desired area. A rider would show himself, approach slowly at a walk, then turn and ride away when the great beasts began to move. They would ride to a position slightly upwind, letting their smell drift across the herd to keep the buffalo moving, maneuvering, until they were in the right location, a broad level meadow. It was surrounded on three sides by a wooded slope, a rocky hillside, and the stream. It was apparent that when the herd began to run, they would break for the open prairie on the unencumbered side to the southwest. On that side the hunters would be stationed.
The portion of the herd now being maneuvered by the wolves of the People was probably fewer than two hundred animals. There was no purpose to large numbers, and they would be more difficult to manage. Slow, careful work had separated this smaller herd from the main migration, and moved it toward the lush meadow that would be the scene of the hunt.
It must be admitted that one may as well expect things to go wrong in such a situation. Large numbers of people and animals in interaction produce unpredictable results. Yet this time it was not so. It was as if the powers that supervise such things smiled on the effort. It has been a hard season for the People, some higher authority may have decided. Let them not be faced with starvation, too.
The animals moved as if directed, and nearly every hunter counted a kill. There was plenty to share with the few who were unsuccessful.
Wolf, hunting with a bow, rode into the hunt and almost immediately found himself approaching a yearling bull from the right side. It was like a dream, placing an arrow just behind the short ribs to range forward into the heart and lungs. He would try for another … a fat cow crossed in front of him and actually turned to present an easy shot. Two kills!
Wolf turned, looking for his brother, to see Beaver’s quarry go down kicking. Other buffalo were falling before the lances and arrows of the hunters. He could see that the hunt was good.
In a short while the herd was gone, thundering out into the open prairie to rejoin the main herd. Wolf looked around quickly, counting the bodies of buffalo lying scattered across the meadow. Yes … enough. Plenty for each lodge. It would be a winter without hunger.
Wolf rode back to his first kill, the yearling bull, and dismounted to perform the necessary ceremony. Never had the words of the apology been more
sincere, as he addressed the lifeless buffalo.
“We are sorry to kill you, my brother, but upon your flesh our lives depend, as you depend upon the grasses. May your people prosper and be many …”
He remounted and looked around for Beaver, who was now riding toward him.
“Aiee, what a hunt!” Beaver chortled. “Shall we go now?”
Wolf glanced at the sun. It was still high overhead. Why not?
“I want to change horses,” he said.
“I, too.”
They headed back toward the camp, and met the butchering parties heading toward the meadow. Most of the women were leading pack horses. They located Rain and Heron and paused to tell the women their intention.
“It is good,” agreed Rain. “Your pack is ready. How many kills, and where?”
“Two for our lodge,” Wolf told her. “A yearling bull, there …” he pointed, “a cow beyond.”
Beaver Track was giving Heron similar information. The wives would identify their kills by the painted patterns of ownership on their arrow shafts.
“You might talk to the wife of old Pale Elk,” Wolf suggested. “I did not see him make a kill. Maybe …”
“Of course,” Rain nodded. “We will take care of it, Wolf. Now go!”
He dismounted for a quick embrace, spoke to the children, and stepped back to his horse.
“Dark Antelope,” he addressed his son, “you are the man of the lodge. But do what your mother says.”
The boy nodded. “It is good, Father.”
The brothers took only a little while at the horse herd. Each had already decided which mount he would use. An entirely different animal would be required for this long but hurried journey. One would never use a buffalo runner for such a purpose.
Wolf threw the saddle on his roan gelding and drew the girth tight. Beaver Track approached now, leading a rangy dun.
“Not your bay?” asked Wolf.
“No. He is sore-footed.”
Wolf nodded in understanding.
They rode back to the camp, where they picked up their packs and robes, and turned their horses northeast on the back trail. It was just past midday, and they would be far away by the time darkness fell.
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