Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  As the urgent fire lanced his flesh and spent its swollen fury, her thighs seized each lapping wave with ravished hunger. Then the storm subsided, passing. Running Hawk lay upon her, his hair blanketing hers, his lips tasting the love-dew wetting her neck and breasts. He slowly withdrew and raised himself—reverent of her pain and sacrifice. His eyes worshiped her naked beauty as he recalled the Man-Bull knelt before the sacred robe. And her blood on him was sacred, a virgin’s blood.

  A tentative silence followed. Both were frightened—overjoyed, but frightened.

  His hand traced the trickle of blood on her inner thigh; he examined its mystery between his fingers and asked: “How is it, Young Bird…that you preserved your chastity and prevented Black Hand from taking pleasure with you?”

  “Does it matter how, Running Hawk?” she answered, reaching for her dress; “You can see plainly that I did.” He glanced away, ashamed that he’d asked. She touched his arm and smiled. “Today Young Bird soared with her Hawk through the Blue Sky Space beyond the Sacred Rim. I was yours in the beginning, I will be yours forever.” Then she flashed her scalping knife from its sheath and held the blade to her throat; Running Hawk froze, fearful of what she intended. But she smiled again and said: “When Black Hand tried to have his way, I swore I’d die first. Later”—she swept the blade threateningly—“I swore he’d die if he ever touched me again.” Running Hawk saw the gleaming blade in the steady hand and knew the steel of her words.

  “You are brave, Young Bird. Like a warrior. And beautiful as new life. I see the fawn in your eyes, its grace in your limbs. And I swear to you…your brother will die for what he has done. And Black Hand—”

  “No!” she stopped him from saying more. “Listen to me. I hate my brother and his foul dung of a heart. But if you kill the Dog, you will be exiled. And if we run away, the Dog will soon lead.”

  “How is this?”

  “You have lived beyond the camp circle. You have not seen what some suspect, and what the Dog must not…Black Hand grows feeble. His mind steadily weakens; he hides it well behind his grave silence and gruff manner. Even White Deer is fooled. At first I feared and hated him. Now I am fond, like of a father grown old. And I pity him for more than his fallen spear. He calls me Daughter, I call him Father. So it is between us. I help him with his memory and to gather his thoughts. His mind is like the buffalo shedding its winter fur. Here and there, great patches fall away. But Black Hand’s vital strength will not return. Soon there will be nothing. He will be an empty skin gazing by the fire in his lodge. Have no fear for me, Running Hawk,” she touched his arm once more; “Fear for the People. Be patient of Black Hand…and wary of the Dog.”

  He gripped her hand in his and let the long silence settle his thoughts before answering. “Your words speak the goodness of your heart, which equals your beauty and heals my hatred. Tonight I will return to the lodge of my mother, Yellow Calf. I will be near, Young Bird, if you need me. At the next council, I will ask to speak. I will oppose the Dog’s will. But tomorrow, I will speak with Black Hand.”

  “Be patient of him,” she repeated. He nodded; truly, the fate of their passion lay with the fate of the People, and neither must be torn. While she dressed and carefully braided her hair, Running Hawk quickly filled her basket with the choicest plums.

  Mounted double on Cloud Walker, they rode down the ravine and across the river. He held her before him as she held the basket, and she dreamed the basket held their child. Reluctantly, he eased her down at the second ravine above camp. They had made plans to meet again in three days, hoping a ruse would not prove necessary. To avoid suspicion he rode circling west, to return from the south. Meanwhile, Broken Wing Bird walked leisurely back to camp, savoring each delicious breath—the trees swaying before the wind, the filtering sunlight, the singing river—all the scenes of this day which she would remember always as the brightest wonder of her life.

  During the night a violent storm swept through camp, spent its rage in a furious assault and abruptly passed. Gusting winds bent the trees, snapping limbs and driving sheets of rain against the lodges; poles quaked, stiffened and held; skins buckled and tightened, translucent in the lightning as images from the timeless hunt flashed before the eyes. Then the hail struck, drumming against the taut covers; mere pebbles of ice, not the walnut giants that could rip through a burnished hide. And though the rain-flaps had been closed with the first rumble of thunder, a few pebbles still bounced through the smoke-hole. Broken Wing Bird lay awake, witnessing the excitement, saw one land and reached to place it in her mouth. She rolled it on her tongue, savoring its icy refreshment, and sensed no judgment from the storm, only absolution. For now the plums would be bruised and ruined. Ever grateful her heart song had been sung.

  Careful as the lovers thought themselves, their secret was guessed almost from the start by their mothers, Yellow Calf and Willow That Sings. Much as their old hearts ached for their children’s promised union and their passion denied, they trembled before the tragic prospects sown by its illicit consummation, and could not share the happiness they perceived. And Black Hand’s jealous wife saw as well. White Deer read too much joy on Broken Wing Bird’s face to be fooled—if she was blind to her husband’s waning faculties, it was because her eyes were so focused on her rival. And now to see Running Hawk striding confidently towards her lodge, his shadow cast in camp for the first time in many months, compounded her certainty.

  She continued fleshing the hide stretched before her, scowling as Running Hawk ducked through the lodge-hole to meet with Black Hand. No doubt the young warrior came to trade horses for stealing away a young wife—or some such paltry offering to atone for insulting his Chief. He would no doubt recall Black Hand’s long friendship with his father Antlers Held High, and sight prior instances of errant wives granted their freedom to choose another; no doubt expected his noble manner to gloss his shameful deed, to save his beloved from just retribution and thus preserve her glorious beauty for the pleasure of his robe. No doubt this was why he came. And strange she did not share his hope, for a wise and generous resolution would have restored her to her rightful position as the Chief’s favorite—as the first wife should be ever honored. But she dreamed only of destruction. Still, she was surprised when Running Hawk emerged so soon after entering. She noted his glum face and uncertain glance as he walked away. Her black heart smiled as if infected by the fever of the Dog.

  Despite Young Bird’s clear depiction of Black Hand’s withering state of mind, Running Hawk felt certain there was a path where they could meet in understanding. The path was truth. After smoking the pipe and granting the customary observances, Running Hawk made his request with chosen words and grave respect, stating that Young Bird had long been his in spirit and now that their flesh had joined, she should belong to him in fact, become his wife and have this so declared before all and beyond all approach.

  For an instant the old Chief bristled, threatened by the words, then he gave a grunt and laughed: “Ho! You are blunt. It is good that you speak your desires. But you are young, Running Hawk. There is plenty of time. And my daughter too is young. One day she will make you a splendid wife. Then we shall talk.” Running Hawk pressed his lips in silence; his hopes for reason dashed. What words could glue the fragments of a broken mind. Though he struggled briefly, searching for another approach, he saw none. And if he hadn’t yet realized the full extent of Black Hand’s odd detachment, his submersion in the past, it became apparent in the manner of his abrupt dismissal.

  “Go now,” said the old Chief, “tend to your father’s ponies or Antlers Held High will be displeased.” Running Hawk didn’t stammer or in any way deflect the concern of a kindly elder; he simply reacted to the meaning of the words.

  “Yes, Black Hand, you are good to remind me of my duty. I had forgotten.”

  Exiting the lodge, he glanced to White Deer then left, anxious to be gone.

  That Black Hand actually believed Young Bird his daughter, amazed him; but
that his mind had retreated to the time of their youth—staggered him. What dark crevice, what recess of mystery had he fallen through? This was Massa’ne, madness—bad medicine that Running Hawk wanted no part in, too foolish to examine. Truly, the People were in peril. Had the Dog guessed as much, he would have challenged Black Hand that day. That he hadn’t, meant there was still time.

  But the truth wove a trail of intersecting paths more complicated than Running Hawk could guess. In many instances Black Hand retained his awareness, his shrewd estimate of others, and fixed his mind to the moment. Though there were growing blank spots and more frequent lapses in judgment: most notably evident when he accepted Broken Wing Bird as his wife, and even earlier in the cool silence shown Awoke In Winter when he’d vouched his concern of the Dog’s intent. But the precipitous decline followed Broken Wing Bird’s rejection of him; foremost when she threw him to the ground, as if the jolt toppled his reason. Twice rejected, failing to perform as a husband, his manhood sought the nearest refuge—took the convenient, natural guise of the father. As his own daughter had fled at the very moment he acquired his young wife, it was a simple trick of the mind to declare Broken Wing Bird his daughter…with utter sincerity. And what a man expected of a wife, her most specific duty to him, only the most vile and corrupt would compel from a daughter. A reprehensible act; wholly evil. Now, when one spoke of Broken Wing Bird in terms other than his daughter, Black Hand fled to the haven of the remote past, far from a present made untenable by his own unworthy claim on her. In seeking her, he had sought his youth, irrevocably lost; and with her rejection he shrank from his own judgment and sought the past. And there, ironically, through Massa’ne, his shattered dignity was restored.

  Running Hawk went in search of Awoke In Winter, to breathe his wisdom before the evening council. If nothing else, meeting with Black Hand had indeed called him to his duty. He found his uncle south along the river, standing once more before the old turtle surfaced about mid-stream. Awoke In Winter’s long white hair matched the mane of Cloud Walker. His limbs, though slowed by age, were straight and strong. He gazed upon the current, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Nephew,” he spoke, aware of Running Hawk’s tread, “the Underwater Man tells me that the winter will come early and stay long.” He turned his gaze upon the one so long absent from the inner circle. “Today I see you have a glad heart, but a troubled mind. How can this be? Surely the one must cast out the other. The Underwater Man has a small mind and an indifferent heart. Still, he speaks the truth. It will be a hard winter for the People. Nephew, what joy, what sorrow do you speak?”

  Running Hawk answered as he was asked, directly, with candor. He wished to confess his love, not as a misdeed, but to declare its goodness and constancy and so remove it from the realm of chance and merge it with the People—which was why he had met promptly with Black Hand. Again, he spoke of what had happened. Awoke In Winter nodded thoughtfully, silent before the related scene, attempting to fathom love in all its motives and madness. At last he shook his head and held out his empty hands.

  “Our Chief…I had feared his heart corrupt. But it is his mind that weakens. I gain some comfort, knowing this. The Massa’ne in their madness cannot be blamed. But what use are words? Mine have helped you none. I have grieved for you, nephew. As old women grieve…like the winter wind’s keening wail that soothes none, only freezes the heart.” He sighed deeply. “But a man must act. How? I say only this: A man’s medicine belongs to him. When he dies, it stays with him, unless, like his hair, it is taken by his enemy. A man’s weapons, his horses, his robes and the many articles that comfort his life are his alone and may be disposed of as he chooses. But his heart is a different matter. And if his heart belongs to another, he cannot always choose how to take or leave its joy and pain. His heart is his own and the other’s, both. This I know…

  “A man’s flesh belongs to the earth. We say this often. And his spirit is of the air. This too we signify each time we share the pipe. But a man’s life belongs to the People. For the People nourish and sustain him, as his acts must sustain the People. Without the People he has no life. Like the hearts of two lovers,” he laced his fingers to convey his thought, “they only appear separate. And if separate, they are incomplete, without fruit. When brought together as one,” he clasped his hands tightly then unfolded them, “they bring forth life…

  “At birth we lay at the center of the sacred circle. We open our eyes to the great lodge above and at the apex we see the Pole Star. We live in all our travels at the center of the sacred rim, and this star guides us always. And we die, whether in battle or of old age, at the world’s center. In life and in death, the star is at the apex and the People are at the center. We cannot alter this. How we are brought forth, how we are disposed of. We can only walk the path with honor. Love is not waited on, nor is death delayed. Now you walk a dangerous path that your heart has chosen.” He fell silent a moment, shaking his head sadly; preferred blindness to the vision unfolding. “Nephew, you will act with honor always. My heart knows this. I have no words to chasten love. No wisdom to bridle courage. Fly, Running Hawk!” he cried, raising his hands to the sky as tears flowed down his deeply lined face—“Soar! Remember your heart! Remember the People! Remember an old man, Awoke In Winter!”

  Most were pleased to see Running Hawk seated again in council, welcomed his balanced and generous nature, his ennobling presence. This was a meeting of the Dog Soldiers, the warrior society, not the tribal elders. And seated opposite beyond the fire, Dog That Smiles watched, waiting; though somewhat surprised to see Running Hawk returned, he held no suspicions, too absorbed of late, consumed by his grand design. What the Dog now proposed was a general uprising led by him to rid the territory of all Veho influence: of hunters, traders, the forts and agencies. He would send runners to the various camps, bring together many warriors of the People and their allies to attach in sequence: south to the Darlington Agency, then west to Anadarko and ride the cresting wave north to crush the soldiers at Camp Supply, then sweep beyond, raiding all along the Arkansas till winter.

  “The Warpath!” he cried; “There waits glory worthy of Tsistsistas! Worthy of warriors!” His voice steadied to firm his argument. “Hunters, not foolish farmers who mimic the badger that burrows in his hole and fights only them that draw near. I have gazed into the badger’s blood to divine my fate in war as the old ones suggest. Others may see themselves aged and feeble, or scalped, eyes vacant, their flesh left to feed the wolf and raven…” Here the Dog grinned in disdain. “It is their fear they see reflected in the badger’s blood. I see only myself, as I am. A man…who will meet the enemy with courage and cunning. Who are we? Tsistsistas! The People! Our brother is the wolf that ranges over all the land, the eagle that soars and plummets through all the sky. Hear me, my brothers…let us drive the Veho before us, clear our land like the fire that sweeps the dead grass from the prairie. Strike them now! Like lightning!”—he plunged his knife into the ground. “Know this! The grass remains green only so long as it is free of the plow. And the People will live only if the land is free of the Veho.”

  There was truth in the Dog’s words; none doubted his conviction; all shared his anger and dreamed of the same. But broken treaties, lost battles, and the hard experience of recent years spoke bitterly against their success.

  “I hear the dog,” Running Hawk calmly addressed them; “Yes, my hungry heart chews his words and longs to fight. For the Veho is all about us like the grass in greater abundance after the fire sweeps the prairie.” His eyes bore his point to the Dog. “Their untold numbers press from the north, the east and south…heading west, always traveling the Black Road. And the sacred circle tightens like a noose upon the People, caught in a great surround, hunted by the Veho like our brother the buffalo. And our brothers the eagle and wolf are also driven into an ever smaller circle. I see wisdom in the way of the badger. He fights with courage and always to the death. None can drive him from his home. I see sacred porten
t in the badger’s blood…

  “No, I will not live like a dog and wait for handouts at the agency, nor hire our women out to dress hides for the hunters. I will meet the enemy, Veho or whoever, as he threatens, as he nears, or as I come across him in the hunt. But I will not find glory by calling him down on the People. Remember Black Kettle and his band slaughtered on the Washita? Yellow Hair, too, thirsts for glory. And three winters ago, weren’t half our number wiped out along the Platte by the Bluecoats and our old enemy, the Pawnee? Those who failed to listen to the Peace Chiefs Whirlwind and Little Robe died hearing the screams of their women and children. Fired by their thirst for Foolish Water and the foolish notion they could win against the Veho Soldiers. And some here were present. Black Hand gathered the remnants of the Dog Bands, the defiant ones who licked their wounds in defeat, and bade them join us in the south. Since then he has wisely kept the People from Foolish Water and foolish war. As Black Hand once did, let us burn our flesh in the fire rather than endanger the life of the People with foolish talk of foolish war. For I ask: Where is the glory in witnessing a massacre? In watching our women raped and our little ones pitched on lances…?

  “Recall the vision of Sweet Medicine, heed its warning. Like the Great Bull that scattered the wolves, the Veho may one day set us fighting among ourselves. Let this not be. These are evil times. They are evil people. Each day they edge closer. We are not fools. Why call them before they would come?”

  Those gathered agreed that none could bear this consequence. So the Dog’s plan was vetoed. After deferring to Running Hawk’s wise caution, the Dog reasserted his dominance nonetheless, by setting before them a less ambitious, more acceptable plan. For the time being they’d avoid the Veho forts and agencies, but send a war party west along the Cimarron to attack any hunter who dared venture below the Dead Line—kill all Vehos who violated the Treaty of Medicine Lodge. This was readily agreed to and smoked upon. But questions stalked the Dog that night; his eyes narrowed, seeking a keener focus. Why has Running Hawk returned? What restores his heart? What grants him strength to oppose me?