Murder at Medicine Lodge (13 page)

Then, too, there was the behavior of William and Little Jonas. They were on the move again, bringing in the soldiers' horses, but while they were doing this, they were hissing at each other like a pair of snakes. Now, their doing that hit me with the force of a jolt. Evidently those two weren't as friendly with each other as I'd supposed. I'd supposed this simply on the basis that they were both black men and both low-ranking soldiers. Well, more the fool, me. I certainly should have known human nature better than that.

But my ignorance can be mildly forgiven. Until the moment I just happened to see William and Little Jonas snarling at each other, they had given absolutely no indication of any animosity existing between them. And here's the really interesting thing. Once they were back in the camp area, they stopped arguing. They were so agreeable with each other that if I hadn't seen them arguing, I would never have guessed their private feelings.

*   *   *

We four Kiowa were so elated about the proof we'd found, that on the way back to Medicine Lodge valley we imagined our triumphant return being greeted by hordes of people, all of them happy to see us and eager to hear what we had to say.

The people did turn out in masses. But not on account of us.

The timing of those thirty wagons filled with gifts, the blatant bribe offerings the government used to lure the Nations to Medicine Lodge, was incredible. For well over a week they had been looked for, and complained about because of their absences, but now—wouldn't you know it?—they'd arrived. I am certain the camp guards spotted the eleven of us the same time they saw those wagons coming in from the east, but they chose to alert the people only to the nearing wagons.

This news immediately revitalized the dull-spirited camps and the great free-for-all race was on. Even before the wearied wagon mules could be unharnessed, the ground on which those wagons stood was swarmed, the dead-still chilly air filled with the cries of hundreds of excited voices. I must say something about the gifts that were sent, for they, more than anything, give enormous insight into the profound confusion of the Eastern white men toward the Plains peoples. Those wagons held not only the promised awls, blankets, and iron cookpots, they also contained things we would look at later and wonder what they were for, shoe-button buttoning hooks being the most perplexing.

The most aggressive in the melee were the women, every one of them squabbling and pushing. Outnumbered soldiers tried to maintain a modicum of order by forming a human barrier between the Indians and the wagons. This pitiful attempt was quickly abandoned as the soldiers quickly saw the wisdom of avoiding being killed in the crush. One soldier lost his hat to a warrior who laughed as he clapped the hat onto his head. Then that warrior was instantly amazed when that same soldier shoved his rifle into the warrior's hands before running off like a scalded hare. The warrior remained baffled a mere second. Then, pleased by the unexpected gift, raised his brand-new rifle to test the sight. Just as the stock touched his shoulder, another warrior put the grab on the rifle. Not surprisingly, a fight broke out between the two and other warriors quickly jumped in, either to back their particular brother or make a separate try for the gun. The fight panicked the few remaining soldiers. They promptly abandoned the field. With them gone, the women became more frenzied.

I spotted my wife just as she came to stand inside one of the wagons. She was happy about this monumental achievement until a Cheyenne woman's hand locked on to her hair and pulled her backward. The last bits I saw of my wife were her legs and feet sailing through the air. But I certainly heard her. Having landed on the far side of the wagon, she let go her fury. It required no leap of the imagination to know that she was now engaged in an all-out brawl with the offending Cheyenne.

I pitied that woman.

Considering the awful days spent (during the time Buug-lah lay above ground) in hot fetid air, defiling us inside and out, being almost done in by a violent rainstorm, then successfully finding the vital evidence that would save White Bear's life, Lone Wolf's prestige, and the peace talks, it came as something of a letdown that we could ride right on through that valley without sparking one bit of interest. But, now that we were on safe ground, Hears The Wolf felt safe in returning to the soldiers their rifles and sidearms.

Leaning forward on his horse, handing Hawwy the saddlebag containing the bloodied uniform, Skywalker said, “We are finished now, you and I.”

Hawwy understood the basics of this statement, but I knew Skywalker's true intent. He was telling Hawwy that their truce was over. That it didn't matter that he was about to become a relative by marriage or that he was a friend of mine. As far as Skywalker was concerned, Hawwy would always be the enemy. Evidently, The Cheyenne Robber and Hears The Wolf felt the same way, for when Skywalker rode off, they quickly followed. Feeling ill at ease with their rudeness, I extended my hand. Hawwy gratefully accepted it.

“I am tired, I am filthy,” I said, barely loud enough to be heard over the raucous cries of the wagon-looters. “I will come to your camp later on.”

Hawwy said he would always be pleased to see me. Turning my horse for home, I fled for the comforts of my lodge.

*   *   *

The creek water was very cold and I hate that, but I took a good long bath, scrubbing myself with vigor. Back inside my home I built up the fire and sat before it, half-frozen and hungry. Despite these afflictions, it was good to be home. I studied each and every corner of my lodge, loving each and every commonplace item.

My wife was a tidy person but she was also a slave to habit. No matter how many times we moved, each and every time she restored our lodge, she placed everything exactly as it had been before. Drying herbs always hung over the kitchen area, the same blanket was used to make the privacy wall that divided our sleeping area from our son's. A rope was always strung between the poles high over the fire for drying clothing, because even on sunny days, it might rain and Crying Wind would have to bring our wet laundry inside. She also insisted on rugs to cover the whole of the interior, and leather boxes, containing everything from cooking utensils to extra sets of clothing, to be placed in the exact same areas, where they acted as small tables for the gourd lamps. No matter where we traveled or how much the scenery changed outside the door, inside our home nothing changed. The effect was a sense of permanence, as if our home hadn't moved an inch. Crying Wind's deliberate routine, a thing at the beginning of our marriage I considered amusing, then—later on—boring, was actually neither of those things. What she did was create a continuing sense of home, a place both my son and I instantly recognized the moment we came through the door.

Now, I thought, if she would just come home and cook me something to eat, life would be beyond bliss. But she didn't. I endured a very long wait, with hunger pangs growing acute.

When I couldn't stand the pangs a moment more, I rummaged through one of her carefully packed cases, found strips of dried meat, and tore into them. Just as I was finishing the last piece she finally turned up, with a blackened right eye, a huge smile on her face, and her arms loaded.

“There you are!” she cried happily. She passed me by and busied around, storing away her newly gained items. “I thought you'd be with the council. Everyone else is there.” She rounded on me, showing me a bright blue blanket. “Isn't this beautiful? You wouldn't believe what I went through to have it. Those greedy women acted like wolves.” She began to refold the blanket. “Not that the men behaved any better. You would have thought the soldiers would have done a better job at giving out the gifts. We had to do everything ourselves.” Shaking her head, she tisked, “Typical.”

She put the new blue blanket on our bed, then came at me with three little metal boxes. Sitting before me she gingerly pried open one of the boxes. Holding it out to me, her eyes, even the blackened one, shone with pride. “Look at these tiny, tiny beads.”

I did. They were the glass beads gradually replacing the carefully cut and dyed porcupine quills that were sewn onto shoes and clothing for decoration. Porcupine quills are relatively free. All one need do is kill a porcupine, then, as carefully as possible, skin it. Glass beads, on the other hand, were very expensive. Somehow Crying Wind now had hundreds of them, and in every color imaginable.

“How did you get these?” I gasped.

“By grabbing,” she sniffed. “I'm telling you, it was madness out there. If I had simply waited to be given something, I would have come home with empty hands.”

Carefully she closed the lid and set the box aside. Opening another, she showed off finely made metal needles, items even more expensive than the beads. Seeing that I was properly impressed, she moved on to the next box.

“This is for you,” she said proudly.

Realizing she had thought of me during the rough-and-tumble activity, I humbly accepted the box, carefully pried open the lid. Then I just stared at the contents. “What is it?”

Impatient with my ignorance, she took the thing out, unfolding the thin metal strips attached to either side of the pieces of blue glass that were set inside wire frames. To my utter amazement, she stuck the thing on her face, the two pieces of blue glass covering her eyes. I could only stare at her in open-mouthed wonder.

Talking to me while those pieces of glass covered her eyes, she said, “Haw-we-sun and The Cheyenne Robber got into a fight. Again. Sometimes I wonder how those two will ever stand being related.” She sighed. “Anyway, the fight was near one of the wagons and when Skywalker intervened—”

“Skywalker?”

Her forehead crinkled. I assumed she was sending me a critical look. It was a bit difficult to tell. Her eyes weren't visible behind those darkened pieces of glass. Crying Wind hated being interrupted. She made no effort to speak another word until she was certain that I would remain respectfully silent. It was very quiet in that lodge for a good amount of time. Finally she continued.

“When Skywalker intervened and demanded they shake hands, he also said that they should exchange gifts. The Cheyenne Robber offered Hawwy a new blanket and Hawwy gave The Cheyenne Robber these things he calls ‘Tep-ne-cals' [spectacles]. Well, after The Cheyenne Robber put them on, the other men wanted Tep-ne-cals too. There were many more boxes of them in that wagon, so Hawwy gave them out. Of course he had to find an extra gift for The Cheyenne Robber, because it isn't proper for a man to give everybody the same gift he just gave the man who will be his brother-in-law. When Hawwy saw me, he made certain I was given a box of Tep-ne-cals to give to you. He said for you to wear them on sunny days, that they would save your eyes.” She took them off and looked down at them. “I believe that's true. Everything becomes very dark when looking through these pieces of glass.”

She handed them over to me and I put them on. Having the lodge door closed, the only light that of a moderate fire and what little there was from the sun slanting down through the smokehole, the interior of our home was a bit murky. Looking for the first time in my life through sunglasses, everything except for the muted flames in the fire vanished.

“Where did you go?” I laughed.

A shadowy form of my wife leaned to the side, placing herself in front of the firelight. Waving her hand she giggled, “Here I am! Can you see me now?”

I took the glasses off, staring at them in silent wonder. In a husky voice, I said, “This is a magical gift.” Then I remembered another magical thing.

The shovel.

Crying Wind was so delighted that I had to tackle her in order to stop her from running out to show it off.

“You can't!” I shouted. “Not now. Not until we're out of this valley.”

“Why?”

“Because I stole it.”

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. I hastened to explain.

She wasn't pleased.

“You mean you gave me something you stole off a dead white man?” she railed.

“No! It was only a marker. Besides, Skywalker blessed it while he was stealing the other one for his wife.”

Crying Wind frowned, threw the shovel at me. I managed to catch it just before it made painful contact with my face. Her fists stuck to her hips, her voice a growl, she said, “I don't care how much he blessed that thing. It was taken off a grave and I won't have it in my home. You just take it right outside and use it to dig a hole and bury it deep. And don't you ever, ever give me another present you stole from a dead white man. Which means you still owe me a present, because I gave you the Tep-ne-cals.”

Actually, Hawwy had given me the sunglasses, but Crying Wind was in too dangerous a mood to bring this rather fine point to her attention. While I dug, I prayed mightily that something of worth had been left in one of those wagons. Remembering the mad scrambling scene, mine was a dim hope, but it was all a thoroughly contrite husband had. After burying the shovel, I wandered out to the grazing field to find my horse.

The grasses were being steadily cropped down by the herds. There was still good growth left, but in a few days the pastures would be depleted and the Nations would be impatient to move on. Which made me glad that White Bear's brush with military justice was over. Now the chiefs could get on with the matter that had brought them here and we could leave. No one was more glad than I that our time at Medicine Lodge was ebbing away.

Having just been released for rest in the pasture, my favorite horse wasn't happy to see me again. It shied from my touch, but, unable to run away because of the hobbles, all it could do was snort and bob its head. Taking pity on it, knowing that it had had enough, I chose instead my second-favorite, a buckskin I'd won in a gambling game. It was a good horse but not as good as my dark-red horse. Anyway, once I was mounted, I took myself off to find my wife a better present.