Murder at Medicine Lodge (3 page)

“Tay-bodal!” he thundered. “Be a little quicker. If the Cheyennes and Arapahos should suddenly appear, I really wouldn't care to know what they might think we're doing with Three Elks.”

Big Tree looked back at White Bear, then he fell over laughing. He was followed rather rapidly by Dangerous Eagle. The instant Three Elks found himself partially free, he wormed out of White Bear's grasp and began to run, howling with pain and pumping blood from the gaping wound. Which meant, of course, that we had to chase him around. Not an easy task seeing as how we were all running against high grass, bobbing our way through it like panicked rabbits.

Raven's Wing, a very leggy man, was approximately my age, which would have put him a bit over thirty years. But Raven's Wing looked much older. The texture of his skin was like that of an old boot, a condition common to warriors on the war road and having to go without water for long periods in the punishing heat of full summer. Warriors of Raven's Wing's class, the Odegufa (meaning “less wealthy”), wore their leathery skin like badges of honor. It was also a clear indication that they were striving hard to become Ondes, members of our Nation's highest class. Myself, I have always been content to be a Kauaun (roughly translated, “common”). As such, other than the pox pits, my skin was baby-smooth and I liked it. So did Crying Wind. But I digress.

Raven's Wing, a man whose sole desire in life was to be White Bear's first lieutenant and thus was always seeking ways to impress him, put a flying tackle on Three Elks, successfully bringing him down. And while he was down, being held there by the others, I dug that bullet out despite Three Elks screaming and writhing. Then I stitched him up—which produced more yelling (he really was the worst patient I've ever known)—and finally bandaged him. It wasn't a very good bandage but considering the grappling circumstances, a botched bandage had to do because the smell of blood was attracting biting flies. The insects were trying hard to get at the wound and their success would not have done at all. At any rate, as a hurried attempt, it would do until such time as we made a suitable camp. He wasn't yelling anymore, just sort of snuffling and flinging away tears with the flat of his hand, looking at all of us—me most especially—as if we were evil.

When I returned to my wife, she was eagerly waiting for any juicy tidbit concerning my patient, her dark owl-shaped eyes literally glowing with anticipation. Really, this love for rumormongering was her most unflattering trait, and despite the fact that months ago, gossiping tongues set against her had very nearly cost her her life, she still wasn't cured. I was barely dismounted when she was all over me like a heat rash.

“Is it true The Cheyenne Robber shot Three Elks in the back?”

Looking at her with a hard expression, I wordlessly set to the task of hobbling my horse. She ignored the warning look, coming after me, squatting down beside me chattering like a busy squirrel.

“A few days ago, two women saw Three Elks speaking to White Otter.” Her tone became more whispery, filled with wonder. “They were alone.” I glanced at her and she nodded meaningfully. In a much lower voice she finished, “He even helped her as she tied on the cradle board and—”

“I fail to see anything untoward about his actions,” I shouted. “It sounds to me as if he was being nothing more than a helpful brother.”

She slapped my arm. “Do you never understand anything? Three Elks touched another man's wife! That's why The Cheyenne Robber shot him.”

I turned a pained face toward her. Crying Wind's expression was utterly self-satisfied. I suppose I was remembering too clearly what gossip had almost cost me—cost us. That's the only excuse I have for the complete loss of my temper. I really let her have it, and as each word stung, her lovely face became more stricken.

“How many times do I have to tell you that as a doctor's wife your love for tattling is both unseemly and insulting? And may I remind you that this nature of yours is also unsafe? It wasn't so long ago that you were accused of being a witch by those who should have known better. Yet here you are, eager once again to believe the worst of a simple accident and actually help your tongue-wagging sisters and aunties spread this harmful tale. You should all be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.”

She stood and walked away.

I was not given anything to eat and she did not speak directly to me for the next three days. If it hadn't been for Favorite Son's continual grousing, I would have enjoyed the peace for, not long after arriving at Medicine Lodge, those three days were the only respite I was to know. Most especially after learning that, in the Blue Jacket army, no one liked the bugler.

TWO

I think my most favorite thing is the grass-dancing, a ceremony that signals the opening of a camp. Teams of our longest-legged warriors wearing their finest dress, ventured out into the open fields and, to the music of the drums and the singing of many voices, they danced in skillful leg-swinging motions, trampling down the tall grasses. We had safely reached the wide valley of Medicine Lodge and the dance celebrated the end of tedious travel.

In life, it is always the simple things which give us the most pleasure, and this simple thing of opening the camp lifted our spirits as nothing else could. Our voices grew stronger, filling the valley with our presence. We wanted the already-encamped Blue Jackets and various tribes to know that the true People, the Cauigu (Kiowa), had arrived. When our own voices came back to us from the surround of foothills, we knew the other camps had clearly heard.

Next came the rush for the best places for individual family camps. Crying Wind wasted no time or words, for she had already decided on a shady place close to the creek. She was a canny woman but also somewhat lazy. She always set up our home close to a good water source and wood supply. That way she never had to walk very far for either. Taking my faster horse, she galloped off, racing against the other women who had designs on such a location themselves. With my wife's departure I was left with the task of struggling with our temper tantrum–throwing son, as well as moving along our tiny herd, while guiding the horses pulling the travois containing everything we owned. The false summer was holding, the day was hot, and sweat poured from me as I coaxed and cajoled child and horses.

The trouble was that both had understood the grass-dance ceremony, too. My son didn't want to move another inch and the horses wanted to go immediately into pasture. The herd I grappled with consisted of five extra horses, Crying Wind's mare, Favorite Son's pony, and the three drag-horses. Not a great number, really, but enough to give me trouble. Pulling and tugging, I strained all of us forward. I couldn't see the campsite my wife had gone for. The landscape rose a bit and all I had left of my wife's determined direction was a faceful of dust. Impatient and cranky, I yelled at my horses and my son. My son began to bawl and Crying Wind's mare wasn't happy with me on its back. As I was heavier than it was used to, it responded by prancing sideways, nodding its head in a dangerous manner. To add to my worries, the old roan pulling one of the travois just stopped dead-still and began to graze, sending me one-eyed furtive looks.

Now, I have never beaten a horse, and for two very good reasons. One, horses are sacred beings and must be treated with complete respect. Two, an angry horse can hurt you. That old horse was telling me in no uncertain terms that if I did not allow it a moment to replenish itself, that it would bolt, tipping the travois and leaving me to pick up our household goods, which it would spread all over the valley. Now, considering the heat, that really would have hurt me.

Heaving a dejected sigh, I dismounted and went to my squawking son, pulling him down from his pony. Then I tried not to laugh. After many days of riding, his little legs stuck out oddly, for they were still too short to bend correctly around the pony's belly. Favorite Son was having a hard time trying to pull his legs together and was being quite specific about the pains in his groin. Patting his head, I thought, Welcome to manhood.

I did not have time to offer manly advice, for just then my wife came stomping over the rise. She stopped at the crest and waved an arm, her manner intolerant of our loitering. That she was on foot meant she had left my horse as a marker in the spot she had selected for our home camp. She then turned her back on us and, with her hands on her hips, she kept a sharp lookout for any unscrupulous woman that might take it into her head to move the marking horse. Housewives could be sneaky, worse than the Lakota, really, and even though some of the women she watched out for were her own sisters and aunties, when it came to prime camping areas, Crying Wind didn't trust any one of them.

Encouraging my son to walk out the pains in his wobbly, bowed-out legs, I began leading the horses up the slight incline toward her. And— I forget. Did I say it was hot? Well, it was. I cannot stress this too much, for this is a memory of Medicine Lodge that comes to me each and every time I think of the place. An arid heat filling the valley of about twenty miles, shimmering under a sun so blazing-hot that the skin blistered and lungs were seared with each drawn breath. This was the way of the high prairies. There the land is either boiling hot or freezing cold. This was Osage country and, as far as I was concerned, they were welcome to it.

Despite the heat, the snuffles of my son, and the uncooperative attitudes of the horses, I pulled all of us forward, up an incline that felt steeper than it looked. With each step I took, I believed it would be my last, as I was about to expire from heatstroke. My own peril quickly reminded me to spread the word among our people to double up on their daily ration of salt. I was thinking about that, thinking that we Kiowa who preferred more humid climes were at risk in this awful place, when the horses, my little boy, and I, finally made it up that hill.

She was an amazing woman, my wife. I might balk at giving the roan a swift kick to hurry it along, but she felt no such hesitation. As soon as we were close enough to her, Crying Wind took over boy, man, and the horses, and we were quick to obey her scolding words, get out of the way of her slapping hand. With her in charge, we were quickly at the chosen site. The instant we arrived I fell down, lay sprawled on my back while Crying Wind, after sending Favorite Son off to cool himself in the creek, began the work of unpacking. With a groan, I rolled to the side, then eased myself into a sitting position. Crying Wind sent me that look. The look all married men know. The look that told me we were still having a fight, that she was still carrying a grudge. Well, I thought, fine. If she wants to fight, we'll have a really good fight. I peeled myself off the ground and proceeded to do something guaranteed to irritate the very breath out of her.

Another myth about Indian men is that we are feckless, content to sit around while our poor women are made to do all of the work. What a load of— Indian men are not shiftless and we are not helpless. We can make a camp as good as any woman, and during the many years I lived alone, I took care of myself wonderfully well. It was only since my marriage that, according to Crying Wind, I couldn't do anything right. Normally I would just take myself off, stay out of her way until she had our home exactly the way she wanted it. But on that day, just to prove to her that she could not growl at me like a badger, bossing me the way she had our horses, I was just as helpful as I knew how to be.

And,
oooh,
did that make her mad!

Marriage is like a dance, the constant circling of partners seeking a workable coexistence. I've known a lot of men who felt that once a comfortable life was made with a woman, that the excitement of marriage was over. I never felt that way. But then again, I was married to Crying Wind and they weren't. Even though I adored her—would have given my life for her—when she set to snarling and snapping at me, I would lose all patience and give her just as good as I got.

This was how a handful of warriors found us, me helping to raise the lodge poles, and Crying Wind and I quarreling and saying a number of unflattering things. Only when I turned my head, saw the three of them standing there, smirks twitching their lips, did I feel any remorse about the way I was intentionally baiting my wife.

“White Bear wants to see you,” Raven's Wing said.

To my mortal embarrassment Crying Wind tipped back her head and shouted, “Thank you, Father above!”

I was mad at her for a long time because of the way those men laughed.

*   *   *

I was led to a place where an impressive number of men had already gathered, all of them listening to White Bear.

“We will go to the Blue Jacket camp, let them see our greatness. A little fear in their hearts before the peace talks begin is a good thing.”

“What about Lone Wolf?” someone asked.

White Bear's expression became sour, his eyes fixing on the one asking the question. Any reminder that Lone Wolf was the rightfully elected principal chief irked White Bear. His was the firm conviction that if the election had had only two candidates—meaning himself and Lone Wolf—and had not been split by a third candidate, Kicking Bird—that he would have won the majority of votes. But Kicking Bird had been a candidate, and the contesting between the two old rivals had been ugly. The thing White Bear would never admit was that he and Kicking Bird both had been guilty of name-slurring. By staying well out of their bickering, Lone Wolf had managed to win the election without ever having to say a campaigning word. But, true to form, White Bear blamed Kicking Bird, and in turn Kicking Bird blamed White Bear.

“Lone Wolf has nothing to do with this,” White Bear declared. “He may be the chief over all of us, but he runs no one. It is every man's born-to right to say where he will go and where he will not go.”

White Bear's statement produced a round of men softly grunting, “Hau,” meaning yes. Then White Bear angled his head and looked in my direction.