Red Bird Woman laughed softly. “Antelopes don’t hear like we do,” she said. “That one does not know where the sound came from.”
After Dane reloaded, she took the carbine, aiming high so that the bullet struck dry ground beyond the antelope, kicking up a spurt of dust. Frightened by the dust, the antelope sprang forward, bounding for several yards before stopping at the base of the ridge, in easy range. She handed the carbine back to Dane. He brought the animal down with the next shot.
Before nightfall they were roasting antelope steaks on hot coals alongside a trickling stream. Dane ate until he felt the pressure of food against his belly muscles, and then lay with his head on his saddle to watch the first stars appear in the darkening sky. He felt well content, yet restless. Red Bird Woman was across the dying fire, her blanket thrown loosely over her legs. Except for the chirr of insects and the sound of their horses nibbling at grass, the land was heavy with silence. It was as if they were the only people on the earth.
He remembered what Mr. Lykins had said about taking her back to her man. He may kill you if he thinks you’ve slept with her. Tonight for the first time he was alone with Red Bird Woman. He had yearned for her on other nights, and he had seen Lykins look at her in that way, too. He had not been with a woman for many moons. She had not been with a man for many sleeps. Perhaps they would never find her people. Would they go on forever searching, sleeping apart like brother and sister? He sat up, looking across the fire at her, and he knew from her stirring that she was awake.
Walking without sound around the dead fire, he kneeled to look at her face and saw the flutter of her closed eyelids. But when he placed a hand on her shoulder, she struck him hard against the ear with her open palm, almost unbalancing him. “I am Lean Bear’s woman,” she said without anger.
“I wanted only to touch you,” he whispered. “I am lonely.”
“I also am lonely,” she said, “but I am Lean Bear’s woman.” She turned her back to him as though settling the matter.
Next morning he was not sure whether that brief encounter had actually occurred or he had only dreamed it. All that day he kept seeing visions in the sky, phantasmal shapes that might have been clouds or only fancies from his mind. He felt lost upon the limitless grass without a tree to break the monotony of earth and sky. He longed for the green hills of Okelogee, the Sleeping Woman, and the Little Singing Stream.
Darkness overtook them on that desolate plain. While Red Bird Woman gathered buffalo chips to make a fire, he picketed their horses, using iron spikes from Lykins’s saddlebags. The sky had become overcast, the wind dying to an ominous stillness, and lightning danced along the western horizon.
Throughout that day they had exchanged few words, but while they ate their scanty meal, Red Bird Woman talked almost continuously. She feared a storm, warned him to make certain the horses were securely fastened to the spikes, chattered about winds that had lifted tipis into the air, speaking so rapidly at times that he could not follow the unfamiliar Cheyenne words. He was glad when she stopped so that he could go to sleep.
A sudden gust of cold wind awakened him. Lightning filled the sky, printing grotesque figures against boiling clouds, and the rumble of thunder never ceased. In a flash of lightning he saw Red Bird Woman running to check the horses, trying to soothe them with her presence.
Great drops of water followed by hail the size of acorns struck him hard in the face, rattling against the ground. He stood up, covering his head with his serape, and heard her cry out in pain. He saw her struggling with her windblown blanket, and hurried to help her. A bolt of jagged lightning blinded him, followed by a deafening thunder blast that shook the earth. With loud whinnies the horses jerked at their picket pins, tore them loose, and ran wildly away into the storm.
“Lie down!” she shouted. “Thunderbird is angry tonight, flapping his wings and blinking his eyes. Lie down, or his arrows will strike you.”
The only shields they had against the beating hail and rising wind were his serape and her blanket. They tried to make a combined shelter, clinging together and holding to the edges. The hail and wind gradually diminished, but the thunder and lightning seemed suspended above them, the firebolts striking on all sides. At each crash, she clung tighter to him, trembling, her face against his neck, whimpering with fear. Drenched by the cold rain, each sought warmth from the other, breathing the animal odors of wet buckskin and wool.
At first daylight they awoke in loose embrace. The sky was cloudless. He moved against her, but she forced him away, sitting up to search for her buckskin skirt. “Aho-ya!” she said. “That evil Thunderbird. If I had the right to wear the nihpihist, it would not have happened.”
“Nihpihist?” he asked, not understanding the word. She was surprised that he did not know of the protective cord made of soft twisted deerskin that young women wore after their puberty ceremonies. Before traveling or sleeping, unmarried Cheyenne girls looped the cord around their waists and between their thighs, winding it around their legs almost to the knees. If a man removed this cord, or even tried to do so, he might be slain by male relatives or stoned to death by the females. Married women, she said, had no right to wear it.
“It is not a custom among the Cherokees,” he told her, rubbing a sensitive place along the lower side of his neck. It prickled painfully. He remembered her biting him there.
Now they began the search for the horses, carrying the saddles and packs on their backs. Not enough rain had fallen to destroy the tracks, and even where the buffalo grass was thick he had learned from Red Bird Woman how to pick out signs, a bruised stem, a slight difference in coloration, a changed direction of the leaves. Before noon they sighted a small camp, a dozen tipis along a fringe of cottonwoods. Shading her eyes, she studied the camp for several minutes. “Arapahos,” she said then, and started walking very fast.
As they came up to the camp, Dane recognized their runaway horses. They were near a large tipi, picketed with the iron spikes they had dragged across the plain. An old man, half reclining against a willow backrest, was sunning himself. Two women were scraping flesh from a buffalo skin staked to the ground. Children were playing under the cottonwoods along a shallow stream. “The young men are at the hunt,” Red Bird Woman said. She saluted the old man, who stood up to welcome them, making signs toward their horses. He had thought they belonged to white men because of the metal pins on their tie ropes.
“I am Lean Bear’s woman,” she told him. “Have you seen the Cheyenne Dog Soldier people?”
He nodded, his eyes brightening, and pointed toward the north. Three sleeps past he had seen them, camped with Big Star’s people along the Hotoa. They were awaiting a big herd moving there for water; he prayed that some of the buffalo would come near this Arapaho encampment.
From the food pack, Red Bird Woman took the last of their sugar, which was wrapped in a piece of oilcloth, and gave it to the old man. They saddled the horses then, and she led off at an easy gallop.
That afternoon the largest buffalo herd that Dane had yet seen streamed slowly off a land slope to the east, blackening the horizon as it moved northward like a wide river. “They are going to the waters of the Hotoa,” she said, “but not as fast as we.” Before sundown she pointed toward a camp, two circles of tipis, one much larger than the other, almost a hundred lodges all together across a clear running creek.
Red Bird Woman turned toward the smaller circle. They splashed through water to the horses’ chests. A few yards down the creek bank, a white-haired man was drinking from cupped hands. He rose up quickly when he saw them, calling Red Bird Woman’s name.
“Big Star! Uncle!” she cried.
“You yet live,” he said, smiling until he looked at Dane. “Lean Bear grieves for you, niece. He has taken no other woman.”
“He’s there, in the Dog Soldier circle?” she asked.
Big Star made an affirmative sign, and she lashed her horse up the bank. Dane followed, but at that moment he wanted to be somewhere els
e, regretted that he had not gone on to Independence with Sam Lykins. As they came into the small circle, an old woman beside one of the tipis looked at Red Bird Woman and uttered a high cry, Aie-eee, and threw a cloth over her face, rocking her body back and forth.
A man came outside, blinking against the sunlight, a big man with black hair parted in the middle and reaching to his shoulders. He wore only a bright red breechflap and a beaded choker. Red Bird Woman dropped from her saddle, rushing toward him, but he held a hand out to stop her, his eyes still narrowed, his full-lipped mouth under his aquiline nose fixed in a hard line. His glance shifted back and forth several times from Red Bird Woman to Dane, always hesitating when he looked at Dane’s Mexican boots as if there were some hidden meaning to be understood from them. Dane dismounted to hold both the horses.
Somewhat roughly Lean Bear reached out and grasped his wife’s arm, leading her inside the tipi. Dane could hear their voices rising and falling, but indistinct, and then the old woman got up and came closer, turning her head like some curious bird to peer at him. She was examining the teeth marks on his neck. He turned away from her and fastened the top loops of his hunting shirt.
When Lean Bear came outside the tipi alone, he did not look at Dane, but walked stiffly around to the back of the tipi, returning in a moment with a pinto pony. He led the pony up to Dane and offered him the rawhide tie. “I have two horses,” Lean Bear said. “One of them is yours.”
“No, I…” Dane was about to say that he had no need of another horse, but he saw Red Bird Woman at the open flap of the tipi, bowing her head and making frantic signs for him to accept the gift.
“This is a fine animal,” Dane said quietly, taking the tie rope.
“A small thing for what you have brought to me.” Lean Bear clasped his hands together and smiled for the first time.
That evening Big Star gave a feast in his large tipi to celebrate the return of Red Bird Woman, with Dane as the honored guest. As the evening progressed, Dane learned a little about the Cheyenne soldier societies, which were quite unlike the clans of his own people, having nothing to do with birth or family relationships. Big Star, the chief, was also a leader of the Red Shield society. His nephew Lean Bear led the Dog Soldiers, who were so renowned as warriors that a number of Sioux had left their tribe to become members. Whenever the Dog Soldiers camped with their people, they always made their own circle of tipis.
For Dane, the surprise of the evening occurred just before the feast began. The bottom of Big Star’s tipi had been rolled up to admit the breeze, and a large fire was burning in the center, with a circle of Cheyennes, mostly older men, seated around it. Big Star sat with Dane on one side and Red Bird Woman and Lean Bear on the other. Dane watched the chief’s wife and daughter tending the kettles and other utensils over the fire. With the firelight playing upon her face, the young girl seemed so beautiful to him that he could not stop staring at her. She reminded him of someone, not Red Bird Woman, who was quite pretty, but someone else. This girl had a shyness about her, but from time to time she would look sideways at him. If her eyes met his, she would glance quickly away. Big Star lighted a pipe and was showing Dane how to smoke to the Spirit Above when a sudden drumming of hooves sounded from the camp entrance. The riders, six or seven young men, scattered in different directions, one of them trotting up to the chief’s tipi.
Big Star laid his pipe down. “The buffalo scouts,” he said. “Let us hear what my son has to tell us.”
The chief’s daughter moved in front of Dane, her face turned toward the rider, and when she smiled he knew whom she reminded him of—Yellow Hawk, the young Cheyenne he had met at Bent’s Fort. And it was Yellow Hawk who dismounted, stooping to enter the lodge.
“Big hunt tomorrow,” he announced. “The herd is resting along the Little Fork of the Hotoa.”
Big Star nodded approvingly. “After our feast, the criers will announce it. We’ll go at daylight.”
Yellow Hawk turned his head, surprised at the size of the circle. “What’s this, a feast—” He saw Dane and Red Bird Woman then, and shouted his amazement. After a great deal of handshaking and laughter and explaining, Yellow Hawk brought his sister to Dane. “Many times I have told Sweet Medicine Girl of my friend, the Sanaki. She is timid of boys, but never tires of hearing of you.”
Sweet Medicine Girl bowed her head shyly, but offered her hand. Her fingers felt small in his clasp, trembling like a captured bird.
After the feast, which Dane later learned was boiled young dog cooked in a gravy of buffalo fat and wild sweet potatoes, Big Star announced that the young people could dance the Night Dance to bring the celebration to an end. The old men wandered off to their tipis, their places being taken by young men and women who had been waiting outside. The girls gathered on one side of the fire, the boys on the other, and then a drummer took his place between them and began a slow beat.
At a cry from the drummer, the girls arose and with folded arms danced slowly across to the seated young men. “Don’t look up,” Yellow Hawk whispered to Dane. “Direct your gaze at your feet.”
A pretty girl danced up to Yellow Hawk and kicked him on the sole of one moccasin. He jumped up, seizing her by the belt. She linked her fingers in his belt, and they started a column of couples, dancing around the fire. A moment later, Dane felt a gentle tap on one of his Mexican boots. He looked up into Sweet Medicine Girl’s expectant face. Somewhat awkwardly, each held to the other’s belt, and they joined the dance. He hoped it would last forever, but it was soon ended. Big Star signaled the drummer to cease beating and summoned Sweet Medicine Girl to assist her mother in lowering the sides of the tipi.
Dane slept that night in the back part of Big Star’s lodge in one of the beds reserved for guests. He dreamed of Sweet Medicine Girl—her soft liquid eyes glancing shyly at him, her small hand clasped in his, her graceful movements beside him as they shuffled round the drummer and the fire. A sharp pull on his hair awakened him. “Buffalo hunt,” Yellow Hawk whispered.
At Yellow Hawk’s suggestion, Dane rode Lean Bear’s gift pinto, which was trained to hunt buffalo. With a hundred other men, old and young, they rode off toward the Little Fork as a huge orange sun floated into view on the horizon.
They found the buffalo scattered into groups varying from a few hundred to a thousand, feeding along the Hotoa. Big Star chose a herd of about five hundred that was massed into a triangular flat between a ridge and the stream. At his signal, the riders divided into two files, one wheeling off toward the ridge, the other riding straight along the stream bank. Dane followed Yellow Hawk to the ridge, and when they reached the top he saw that the files of hunters were encircling the buffalo, which were already beginning to mill. But before the animals attempted to stampede, the circle was completed and the Cheyennes began tightening the ring, moving in for the kill.
The pinto pulled at its bridle, dancing as though impatient to begin. “Look at him,” Yellow Hawk said. “Prancing as if his heart was glad.” He fitted an arrow to his bow. “I think the bow is the best weapon against buffalo,” he said, “although some of us prefer lances and guns.”
Dane told him that he had never shot a buffalo and asked what part of the animal’s body was most vulnerable.
“Aim just behind the left shoulder as it makes a forward stride. Then the ribs are spread apart so that an arrow or a bullet will go straight through to the heart.” He was watching his father, who suddenly raised his arm in a signal to begin shooting. “Aim at the heart!” Yellow Hawk cried, and off he went, riding in close to a fat cow and driving an arrow through its ribs.
Dane missed with his first shots until he discovered that the pinto needed no guidance. Turning the halter loose, he let the pony take him into the herd, where he found a target at close range. He fired and the buffalo leaped and fell with thrashing legs, the pony swerving out of its way. Dane begged the animal’s forgiveness, wondering if the Cheyenne hunters were doing the same for all the dying buffalo covering the ground.
Here and there an animal escaped, hunters breaking away in pursuit. The unguided pinto joined in one of these chases, and to Dane’s dismay, as it leaped over a grassy hummock he found himself sailing through the air to land in a shattering sprawl upon the ground. By the time he got to his feet and retrieved his carbine, the pony had circled back to him, standing still and shaking its shaggy head as though apologizing for the spill. Dane heard Yellow Hawk’s merry laughter behind him.
“Ya!” Yellow Hawk cried. “Pinto thinks you must be Veheo, a white man.” The Cheyenne dismounted. “We have killed enough for one day. Let’s ride for the women. They’ll be bringing knives for the skinning and butchering.”
When that day was done, Dane was certain that he had never worked harder nor had ever been filthier with blood and dust in his life. After they brought the meat and skins back to camp, the women and girls went around a bend in the creek and the men and boys went downstream. Clothing and bodies were thoroughly washed, and then everyone came back to camp to dry beside big fires where buffalo humps and marrow bones and choice cuts of meat were roasting. While waiting for the cooked portions, they ate the tongues and liver raw.
Dancing followed the feasting, and although Dane joined one of the circles, he was so thoroughly weary from the unaccustomed excitement and industry of the day that he soon withdrew. He wandered around the camp searching for Sweet Medicine Girl, and found her dancing with several young girls in front of her parents’ tipi. Big Star and his wife, Bear Woman, who were watching the dance, invited him to sit beside them.