Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  “I name her Hesta…for my mother.” Thus spoken; it was so.

  “Epeva,” Moneva nodded, truly pleased; “Hesta…it is good.” And though they continued using “Little Red Bird” as a pet name to express affection, she was known from then on as “Hesta.”

  Moneva would not remain confined. Next day, up the hill, she was harvesting alongside Hatchet Paw, carrying Hesta in one arm, tossing plums in the basket, nudging it along with her foot. Loath to lay her child aside for an instant, fulfilling each task about lodge and camp while shifting Hesta from arm to arm; and so on for many days to come. This was possibly why a Cheyenne child learned its first lesson, to keep silent, of grave importance in their hostile setting, so quickly and well. Only if it fussed and would not quiet would a mother lay her newborn aside, usually placing it alone at some distance from the lodge until it hushed. As occasion arose, Moneva put Hesta in a baby-board hung from the lower limb of a cottonwood tree, keeping a watchful eye, careful of her Little Red Bird pleading to the wind. But the song of the cottonwood, its singing yellow leaves, soon calmed her and Hesta was left there only three times, learning in a thrice that when Moneva shook the shi-shin rattle, she must be quiet. In any case she rarely cried as there was little need, so constantly tended, strong and healthy, physically blessed.

  The evenings came early and cooled. The world wrapped around mother and child in the sacred circle of the lodge while the wind made music of the coyotes’ call, carrying their haunting chorus beyond the far hills, and the stars gathered close like Maiyun eyes blinking through the smoke hole. Moneva would sit by the fire, playing with Little Red Bird cradled on her lap, touching a finger “eos” to her nose “és” and her lips “esz,” sounding out each word as she covered an eye “exan,” an ear “es-ta,” then clutching a little hand “eo-na” as it neared the fire “Has!” And again “Hoxtao!” as the little hand reached once more to catch a flame. Always cuddling, enveloping her with love.

  And Caspion, ever protective of Moneva, having pulled her from the womb of death, cleansed and nursed her back to life, with Hesta’s arrival his instinct and concern doubled. He rode to the western ridge each night following sundown and set his eyes to the distance, governing the darkness, checking for the least movement or the flicker of a fire—and not till he ruled out all suspected signs and deemed it safe did he descend to the lodge. Each morning at sunup, there again, making certain none approached.

  Cupé, amused by his comings and goings, attributed his restless vigilance to recent fatherhood and humored him one evening as he prepared to mount up. “Mon ami,” he announced, pointing to a nighthawk barely visible above the hill, tacking with the wind, waiting for prey to emerge; “Regarde…le faucon à nuit. Does the gofair in his hole see? Non! Mais dans son coeur, in his heart, he know…if he show his head? C’est sacré, très terrible. Nae’van, death, la mort will snatch him avec la griffe! Les talons! Ecouté bien à le raven et le loup,” he shrugged; “They tell of danger…if enemy rides.”

  Caspion gained his saddle and drew his hat brim even with his brow.

  “You think I bait my own trap?” he smiled in wry response. “Possible I do. You advise well, Cupé, to listen to the raven and the wolf…to let the wind and shadows scout the trail. I bear your words in mind. But I see the wolf and raven disappearing from the land like the buffalo. The few remaining say, ‘Be wary, friend.’ And my heart, na hesta nam, tells me that death, Nae’van, rides the wind and haunts the shadows.”

  With that sober pronouncement he galloped Two-Jacks towards the slope. Cupé watched their ascent and swore the grass parted to another presence running at his side. And he wondered if Ho’ne-hotan was with him yet; if the Tasoom still followed.

  That vision and Caspion’s parting words preyed on Cupé’s thoughts that night; he experienced a rare disturbance of the soul, his feral nonchalance shaken, for he reasoned: Where are my brothers…le Boeuf, le Corbeau, et le Loup? What will guide Cupé and Hatchet Paw; which path to follow? Where to turn no longer trusting familiar sign? Upon the wind he heard derisive laughter; woeful silence settled in the shadows. And he realized that the gopher in his hole escaped the nighthawk only to await the serpent. Truly, Caspion’s vigilance was not foolish—but worthy and wolf-like. Next morning, Cupé beat him to the ridge. From then on they shared the duty by turns.

  Unlike most, their friendship was not based upon common roots or belief, but formed of something older and deeper, more subtly gained, where language is of little consequence. Both respected the wisdom of silence and preferred the act or gesture to convey their meaning. While Caspion disdained and longed to free himself of the dominant forces at play, Cupé remained more or less indifferent—intimate with the immediate scene, it never occurred to him to attribute cause beyond his view, though once pointed out he readily grasped the effects. To his mind 1 and 2 were separate and never blended into 3. Theirs was a somewhat divergent perspective—yet, in essence, sympathetic, of a kind.

  Cupé planned to run a trap line east along the Cimarron that winter and spent the last warm days before the Moon of Freezing Water refurbishing his steel “Oneida” traps, testing the set, spring, and snap. He also fashioned a number of snares and trip-baskets of his own design. Caspion helped in preparation, but would not lend a hand to the task, could never bait a trap nor ride a line—he could kill an animal outright, quick and clean, but never knowingly cause it to struggle with a broken limb till it slowly weakened and died. Nor did Cupé in any way relish such a result, he simply saw the immediate need, to acquire furs, which they all desired. And trapping, frankly, was the best means to that end—his true province, and when not scouting for the army, his sole livelihood.

  Caspion, according to skill and bent, remained the hunter. He supplied their camp with fresh meat; hunting only out of need, he kept each hunt at a half-day’s ride and beyond, careful not to disturb the game nearby, abiding by some unnamed law or taboo, as if lodge and loved ones were dependent upon and protected by the encircling life, fearful that to murder the least would cause Nae’van to approach. Caspion rode out once a week, seldom more, and usually returned by sundown or the following morn with a deer or antelope slung over Two-Jacks’ withers. And while he never sighted buffalo, he did manage to kill a fine elk early on from which the women made the winter’s supply of pemmican, crushing the dried meat and berries till it rendered a thick rich paste, which was then seasoned and packed in parfleche. Not as nutritious or as tasty as buffalo, but still quite good.

  Under the circumstances the dearth of buffalo worked to their favor, for had the beast been as plentiful as in former times, hunters—either Veho or Indian—would have surely appeared, threatening their peace and isolation, if not their lives. As it was their presence was only vaguely known; Camp Supply laid a day’s ride directly south. Cupé returned once that autumn to draw an ample store of sugar and coffee. He let Muldarrin know that he wintered along the Buffalo; exactly where and with whom, he didn’t say. Nor did Muldarrin press the issue; while he’d have preferred the little scout close at hand, he wisely signed the requisition and let him pass. And Caspion at times sighted a distant patrol or convoy of wagons making deliveries north and south, but none turned their way. So left to themselves the foursome and child formed a singular tribe; they shared the harmony of the four quarters and seasons, each complimenting the other in a neatly woven pattern. Often in the evening they shared the sacred pipe; with their breath shared the blessing of sky, earth, and Nivstanivo…of man, woman, and Maiyun. And foremost the child: “Na hesta na nam.” Moneva and Hatchet Paw were so like sisters now that it seemed Little Red Bird had two mothers.

  In the days before the Hard-Faced Moon froze the waters, Cupé rode east to begin setting traps along the lower Cimarron. Caspion remained in camp to keep close watch. From the ridge that morning he scanned the horizon and plain—a band of gray clouds appeared in the far northwest, a dove cooed across the way, nothing more. The wind still grazed from the south, seeding its
warmth as the sun galloped up the sky, its trailing radiance drawing succulent odors from the dried leaves and grasses like bread baking in the crisp autumn air.

  Moneva, bearing Hesta in her arms, walked through the meadow towards the hill south of the camp. Cedars grew profusely from the creek timber to the upper slope, like rough pelage ascending a buffalo’s hump. Scarlet leafed sumac edged the trees, forming a broad thicket at the base, tapering towards the crest like blood flowing from a hillside wound. Each plant headed out with a cluster of dark russet seeds which boiled in water made a tangy fruit-like tea; Moneva paused to pick some. Little Red Bird grasped for a leaf; at her touch it fell brilliant as a luminous red feather floating to the ground. Further on, they flushed a covey of quail. The sudden flutter of wings beating the air startled mother and child. Little Red Bird gasped twice and caught her breath, her eyes evincing wonder, then she clenched her tiny fists and gave a shriek. Moneva raced with her up the slope to where the birds had landed. There she crept softly, attempting to spy the hidden quail. From the cedars she heard a dove’s languid call, like a sigh of nostalgia surfacing from a fevered dream, like at mid-summer when the weary heart longs for the moon’s cool slumber…for “living water” and rain.

  Shadows moved a pace; and the quail flew. A rider emerged, a warrior painted for the warpath, fierce red to mask the eyes amid blackened cheeks and brow. Moneva froze while her heart raged like a trapped animal in fear for her child. But it was the other who saw the ghost, for he had thought her dead. When he spoke, she knew his voice.

  “Broken Wing Bird, are you well?”

  It was Sweet Medicine beneath the war paint; mature, fully fleshed and strong. Her eyes glazed with tears to hear herself addressed in the old way, to know his concern, to meet with the People once more. So overwhelmed she dared not speak, simply answered with a nod that she was well.

  Another rider now appeared, Wears The Wind. He spoke, declaring that they’d observed since dawn: “We see you are the Spirit Hunter’s woman. Is he good to you?” Again she nodded and happily showed them her child.

  “Hesta,” she said softly; “Na hesta na nam.”

  “Humm,” they nodded in approval, marveling at the Blue Sky Space reflected in the eyes; truly a beautiful child—clean, healthy, quiet, in all ways worthy of the People. Then they glanced below, for the father had spotted them.

  Caspion rode up the hill like an angry wind in a trail of dust; he’d leapt on Two-Jacks bareback, gripped the mane and whipped the flanks with his rifle. Upon approach, as Moneva showed no sign of alarm and neither warrior moved to raise his rifle, Caspion slowed Two-Jacks and likewise laid his weapon across his lap, seeing that they meant no harm, for they were of the People, if not her family, then once her friends. Halting Two-Jacks, he tossed his leg over the withers and slid to the ground. He stood a bit back of Moneva, careful not to seem intrusive, but watchful.

  They made the sign of friendship; he greeted in kind. Neither warrior spoke; they avoided meeting his eyes as was proper, but gave close scrutiny to the hair-shirt trimmed with enemy scalps, attempting to fathom the Veho who rode like a Comanche—he who’d killed the Sacred White and saved the one thrown on the prairie…who stood with her now in place of Running Hawk. Of which world was he…of man or Maiyun? And if man…of whose? Aside from the painfully blue eyes and the hair upon his mouth, he could have passed for one of the People.

  All held silent; the wind blew hair, mane, and grass. Thoughts stirred without answer. Then abruptly as they’d come, the warriors gave the sign, “Abide in peace,” turned their ponies and rode southwest.

  XXXIII. Nae’van

  At the fork of the Buffalo they followed the lower branch and by mid-day met up with the others. The war party had fanned out over the plains seeking scalps or prey; some sighted a heavily armed supply train, others a troop of cavalry, but none saw the buffalo. Not since late summer had any met with their brother Hotoa. And Wears The Wind and Sweet Medicine said nothing of Broken Wing Bird.

  No, one does not speak of the dead…

  Sweet Medicine was a far cry from the youth who’d once served as the lovers’ go-between; that youth had died with Running Hawk. Now the Dog Soldier’s chief scout and fiercest warrior, he rode Bull Chaser, a sturdy Appaloosa and prized buffalo mount, the symbol of the dragonfly, Tewowitus, the far-ranging one, painted on each shoulder, rendering him nearly invisible and swift as a whirlwind. Many scalps hung from the bridle; a land poor in buffalo was rich in enemy. Maidens longed to meet his gaze as he rode through camp, thronged by youths vying to lead his horse to pasture; but he glanced at none, kept his eyes trained to the distance, had no time for love, his passion focused on the enemy. And yes, he killed the Veho hunters, rubbed them out at every turn. Some died well, worthy men; others screamed, begging for death, and no, his heart held no pity and showed no mercy. Yet each one he killed brought hundreds more.

  The summer hunt had fared poorly; travois mocked by trailing dust; meat racks empty to the scoffing wind. There were no buffalo along the Cimarron; the remaining herds driven to the Canadian and Palo Duro, deep into Kiowa and Comanche hunting grounds; they too were in need. But those further north, the Cheyenne and Arapaho, were in dire want, left to face the winter with little meat and few hides for lodges and clothing. The first blizzard hit at the close of the Hard-Faced Moon—shortly their food was gone. The children and old ones suffered terribly from cold and hunger. Council was called, Wears The Wind presiding; and the decision arrived at none desired, but all concurred. In the dark winter of ’74 the proud Dog Soldier Band entered Darlington Agency for the first time to collect government rations, accept handouts. The pride of each warrior was crushed, defeated by circumstance, unable to provide, surrendering self and loved ones to the care of a loathsome enemy. Worse, it marked their abandonment of the Sacred Way. All carried an odor putrid as murder, like an Okkliwus. Their despair grew. And Sweet Medicine—“eyes and ears of the People,” he who was their protector—saw the People impoverished and demeaned, and felt the shame foremost…as if he were the prophet, as if he were the cause.

  “The Society of Friends,” the Quakers who administered the agencies, struggled as best they could, hamstrung by policy and contending factions. Honorable, forthright men, so judged and respected, they formed many friendships among the Chiefs and warriors, and gained an occasional, if dubious, convent. Agents John Miles of Darlington and James Haworth of Anadarko were both examples of the kind—but all their faith and selfless labor served only to pave the proverbial road to ruin and delay the inevitable. The Indians, perhaps struck by the novelty, listened patiently to Christian proselytizing, amused that the Veho, few of whom could swim, prayed to He who walked on water. Could Walks On Water swim? And they stoically endured instructions on farming, its foreign methods; some even let their children attend agency schools. For a time, they abided all in silence.

  As always with the Veho, much was promised: Paradise and Life Everlasting. But delivery of food, fuel, and blankets, so meager at first, soon dwindled to nothing. Adding salt to the wound, Veho horse thieves ranged at will, raiding in ever growing boldness and number, particularly at the agencies. Hemmed in, denied protection, the victims were forbidden to retaliate. As want and injury grew, voices roused in protest. The Chiefs could no longer restrain their warriors. The Agents listened, sympathetic, themselves angered by conditions; they sent urgent word to Superintendent Hoag in Lawrence requesting immediate provisions and Federal enforcement of the Territories. He too lent passionate appeal, relaying the message to the Department of Interior in Washington. But the bureaucratic soul, long practiced in artful declaimer, turned a deaf ear, filed all reports with a dismissive wave of the hand. Secretary Delano’s heart held no pity for the Indian and authorized no mercy—his charity and munificence were the sole province of Railroad, Timber, and Mining interests.

  Although on one count he did deliver. In January of ’74 two bona fide Federal Deputy Marshals, Messieurs Lafebvre and Tall
ey, arrived at Darlington—sent to police the entire South Plains and through hundreds of square miles turn the tide of hunters and check the predation of outlaws. And when the hapless pair attempted to make an arrest on “Hurricane” Bill’s gang one day, they met with prompt defiance and chambered weapons. Surrounded and outgunned, they holstered their pistols and high-tailed it. A fool’s duty, as even a fool soon learned. And efforts wane when proved futile; like promises broken, one listens to none.

  Privation and stress mounted daily. By spring the situation at both agencies grew desperate; all were hungry and longed for the hunt—it was approaching the time of the buffalo’s customary return and warriors were anxious to raid for horses and replenish their herds. Even the Peace Chiefs began nodding as others clamored for war, declaring that they “Decide now!” before the People weakened like Black Hand too drained of vital force and courage to act. They’d tried their hands at peace and their hands were empty. The White Man’s Road offered nothing but shame. If war was hopeless, at least it was manly, not insulting like handouts or a slap in the face. And what warrior would turn the other cheek? Peering into the badger’s blood, each saw his death foretold; but the Dog Soldiers agreed as one with Sweet Medicine recalling Running Hawk’s wise council: “Brothers, it is time to emerge like the badger…meet the enemy and fight to the death!”

  The fuse was lit—the South Plains set to explode.

  It was March, Moon When the Horses Fatten. The last snow melted and the first green appeared. The earth lay damp, soft, and pubescent—prepared for growth. From the south birds arrived in droves, resettling old haunts, evening old scores, declaring boundaries and pairing off; their chatter and song enlivened the surrounding trees like blossoms sweetening the air. As for the two lodges still standing in the meadow, those within had passed the winter in comfort and sufficiency. Little Hesta had grown; the black hair framing her face had lengthened to cover her ears which were now pierced and adorned with polished elk teeth. Her eyes flashed the deepest blue. When set free she crawled about the lodge, snuggling the robes, her hands in everything; but mindful of the fire and not speaking yet, she’d shake her little head, thinking “Hoxtoa!”—Extremely no! Caspion and Moneva held her constantly and shared their pride and love; Hatchet Paw always nearby, and Cupé seldom gone for long. Over the past week he’d collected his traps and had taken a modest catch of furs along the Cimarron that winter—raccoon, fox, and beaver—all of which he planned to trade in Camp Supply, then return to the army’s employ.